


Anthemicronicon: The Book of the Ages

by jehane18



Series: The History of the Anthemicronicon [2]
Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, American Idol RPF, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - World War I, Gen, Guitars, M/M, New York City, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/pseuds/jehane18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this pre-WW1 AU where spells are channeled through music and licensed for use, the Anthemic are the strongest fieldcasting band of House Nineteen. President McKinley has been assassinated at the 1901 World’s Fair – were songcasters involved? Cook and his band investigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Cast of Characters

**Author's Note:**

> (Written for au_bigbang 2010 on [livejournal](http://anthemicronicon.livejournal.com/). American Idol cross-season beta by lasadh, US history beta sock_marionette. All images by clover71.)

_In which the Chronomicon introduces itself: the history of songcasting, the beginning of the world, and the Old Ones._

__**~ From the Chronomicon**

In the beginning, there was the rhythm of the wide abyss, lacing the sprawling void with its pulse. Ages later - as time without form might be counted - strings entered the spaces: shimmering cords of yearning, threading the thudding beat on a silver chain.

Then a voice lifted in a clamoring, birthing song - roiling seas and skies, wide continents, the vein and heart-rock of the land, were sung into being from the world's cadenced core.

And the Old Ones rose out of the seas and skies, claiming the wide earth, stepping out of sunken R'lyeh beneath the cold seas, out of the vast plains of Leng.

They were many: Queen of the Continent, the Dark Tsar, the Great Bear of the Plains, to name but a few. They were magnificent and multitudinous; their strides were endless under the gibbous moon.

They ruled the Earth for millennia. When men came, they bent their knees in supplication.

Who knows what occurred after? The moon and stars shifted their songs. The Old Ones, the Grand Ones, no longer bestrode the continents. They took to the seas, sinking below the brimy depths, leaving their beloved people bereft.

The People cried out for their masters, but they were secreted away in their distant fastness and did not respond.

Men's memories are short. They busied themselves constructing roads and buildings, discerned their own way to channel the world's secret heart-song. The old ways, the circinate channels into the interstices of time, the stories of the Masters, they locked away, in grimoires such as this, the book that you hold in your hands: the Book of the Ages.

Men, even those schooled in the old knowledge, forget.

But remember this: in the vastness beyond the world, in their house at sunken R'yleh, the Old Ones lie, not dead but dreaming.

 

 

**CAST OF CHARACTERS:**

|  **DAVID COOK** , songcaster and leader of THE ANTHEMIC, HOUSE NINETEEN’s first field band.  
  
THE GUILD, which regulates all Houses and licensed songcasters in the American States, has asked House Nineteen to investigate into President McKinley’s assassination at the 1901 World’s Fair.  
  
---|---  
**DAVID ARCHULETA** , journeyman. Fresh off the train from Utah.  
  
He's discovered half of a long-fabled songbook, the _Chronomicon_ , with songs that can pierce the veil of time and other things - which he has delivered to House Nineteen.  
|   
|  **NEAL TIEMANN** , the Anthemic’s powerhouse Second. Plays strings.  
  
**ANDREW SKIB** , the Anthemic’s Third and its second stringcaster.  
|   
|  **MONTAGUE ANDERSON** , the Anthemic’s bass-caster.  
  
  
**KYLE PEEK** , the Anthemic’s young drum-caster.  
|   
|  Captain **ADAM LAMBERT** , Broadway showman and the unofficial leader of the ANARCHISTS in York City.  
  
The Anarchists are accused of masterminding McKinley's assassination, though they claim it wasn't them.  
  
They are sworn to uphold a classless society, through violent means if necessary, and to protect America from unnamed evil beyond its seas.  
Captain **CHRISTOPHE DAUGHTRY** from Saint-Michel; **BLAKE LEWISON**.  
  
Both ANACHRONISTS, old foes of Anarchists, they are sworn to the President and the other Royals, and to save mankind from itself.  |   
|  **CONSTANTINE MAROULIS** from Bowery bar the Silo, and **BORIS BICE** , who lives under Grant's Tomb.  
  
  
Captain **KRISTOPHER VON AHLEN** from Munich.  
  
The guardian of the Anachronists' Silver Key. |   
  
 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which the House Nineteen contingent are summoned to a Guild meeting. Archuleta stares at a painting. We learn about Anarchists and Anachronists. The Anthemic pay a visit to the infamous bars of the Bowery; they meet a showman named Lambert and a bum called Hickson._

**_York City: Thursday, __ October 1901_ **

 

David Cook, the lead singer of the Anthemic, House Nineteen's foremost songcasting band, knew he was dreaming.

 

_Journeyman David Archuleta is getting off the eight o’clock train from the Salt Lakes of Utah._

_In his arms, he’s clutching a songbook - the Chronomicon of legend, lost for so many years and found again._

_Cook’s band is there, his blood brothers: stringcasters Tiemann and Skib, bass-caster Anderson, beat-caster Peek. And then there’s Cook, son of a Civil War veteran songcaster, now plying his trade in the City of York._

_Gaslight curls around them like the opening prelude to a Broadway musical extravanganza._

_Arch’s eyes flash with secrets. He hands custody of the Chronomicon to Cook. He’s saying something that Cook can’t hear at first._

_Then Cook hears him: voice creaky and slow like something disused, that doesn’t sound like Archuleta at all._

_“It’s beginning,” Archuleta says. “Help me, or the world ends.”_

_And there are things scrabbling in the shadows at Archuleta’s feet; Cook feels the wet cobblestones undulate beneath him as if the ground’s going to open up and consume him alive…_

 

Cook struggled awake to a slanting grey morning.

Around him were the familiar surfaces of his rooms in House Nineteen of the great Guild of Songcasters of the American States, his home for the last five years. One wall was covered with a flimsy of famed songcaster Jackson Browne, the other a tattered flag of the Union States which had been his father's. Outside his window was another gas-lit dawn in the City of York.

There was pounding sound at the door. Cook shouted, "Come on, it's too early!"

No need for locks in House. His Second, Tiemann, pushed his way into the room, already fully dressed, field guitar case strapped to his back. "There's a Guild meeting," he told Cook sourly; obviously roused hours earlier than his wont, he was not in the best of tempers. "It’s about President McKinley's assassination."

"And what has that to do with us?" muttered Cook. McKinley had been assassinated a month ago by some far-left lunatic at the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition in Buffalo in upstate New York; Roosevelt was now President of the Great American States.

Tiemann shrugged. "Fuller asked for fieldcasters. Not sure why."

"Can't be because Fuller's enamored of my pretty face. Unlike you," Cook grinned. Tiemann rolled his eyes as Cook kicked his way into his clothes, picked up his own guitar case off its stand, and followed his Second out of the rooms.

They descended the long staircase and met Grand Master Fuller and Masters Jackson and Cowell in the grand hallway. The hour was early, the servants were still polishing the mirrors and faded gilt paneling. Boys swarmed up ladders to snuff the candles on the old-fashioned chandelier, letting the morning light the hall from the windows that inlaid the shabby, brocaded walls.

The three most important House officials were somber in their dress regalia. Fuller always looked grim; he was the least good-humored man in the City of York.

"Finally," he said, and turned on his heel. The others fell into step behind him as the footmen scrambled to extend coats and open the doors. Cook shouldered his formal coat and followed them into the cold autumn morning.

House Nineteen's red-paneled carriage was waiting at the step, the liveried horses stamping their feet, hot breath gusting in the air. The coachman handed Fuller up into the carriage and the other men piled in after.

“Head to Sony-Bertelsmann’s,” Jackson ordered, and the carriage set off in the direction of the house of the current President of the Guild of the American States.

The great Guild had been formed in the wake of the Civil War out of the assorted bands and scholars and songwriters from song-licensing Houses in the Union and Confederacy states. It regulated all practicing songcasters in the United American States. The Guild’s President was at present Lord Ralph Stringenfeld Holtz, the Grand Master of House Sony-Bertelsman, who styled himself as first among equals.

"Why is McKinley's death Guild business?" Cook asked.

"Direct as always, Mr. Cook," Fuller drawled. "Your guess is as good as mine. I received word from Lord Ralph last night. It seems the Captain of the City Precinct requires Guild co-operation in their investigations into President McKinley’s assassination."

"And you wanted my Second and me to accompany you for security?" Cook was being facetious, of course; armed bodyguards might be de rigeur in York City one day, but that day hadn’t yet arrived.

Fuller winced. "Hardly. I wished the First field band of House Nineteen to be present at the Guild meeting in the event that field investigations were in order."

"So the Guild meeting has nothing to do with Archuleta and that book of his?" Cook hadn't seen Archuleta since Arch handed him the book -- House gossip had it that Arch had been closeted with Fuller and House scholars for the last five days.

Fuller exchanged a significant glance with his Masters. "I doubt it. Journeyman Archuleta's book is of course a significant discovery. It seems to bespeak new songs, and should we unlock its secrets this will undoubtedly translate into substantial licensing coin for our House. But I cannot see how it’ll have an impact on affairs of state."

Cook shrugged; he was clearly not going to get any more out of Fuller. He looked out of the window as the carriage rolled up the cobblestones of the Upper East Side.

The streets were quiet, stray hansom cabs and buggies rattling past, street vendors setting up their wares. Overhead, one or two great air balloons had deployed on some early business, cutting scarlet and blue swathes across the grey sky.

Eventually the carriage turned into the long road leading to the demesne of House Sony-Bertelsmann. It rolled past manicured lawns and trees in fall colors and pulled up at the great gates. The carriages of the other Houses were already idling in the yard, alongside the new steam-engine automobile that bore House Warner's yellow-and-gold insignia on its engraved sides.

Sony-Bertelsmann footmen ushered the Nineteen representatives into the front hall, past oil paintings of the founders of the celebrated Sony and Bertelsmann families, into a darkened antechamber filled with books and secrets where the Guild meeting was already underway.

Cook recognized everyone in the room: there were the heads of the four big Houses, Sony-Bertelsmann, Warner, Universal and Electric. Beyond them, the heads of the dozen minor houses, all commercially aligned with the Big Four for scholarly and commercial purposes.

It seemed most Houses had brought representatives from their foremost field band, including the Maroon from House A&M. Maroon's One, proud-eyed Levine, still sported a shiner from his last encounter with the Anthemic, his sword-arm in a sling around his neck - he glared daggers at Cook from his perch on a low shelf across the room when Cook glanced his way, and Tiemann smirked in response.

"I'd beware, Cook; it seems the Maroon's out for Anthemic blood," murmured songcaster Way from the Chemic, House Warner's field band.

Beside him, Tiemann snorted, "I'd like to see them try," as loud sounds of disagreement rose among the front row of the meeting.

"Everyone knows it was _Anarchists_ who killed McKinley! They apprehended the assassin, who died in custody -"

"- Pshh, Leon Czolgosz was no Anarchist. He was disavowed by them - "

"What I want to know, Ralph," announced Douglas Morrison, Lord Master of House Universal, his resonant bass cutting over the other lesser voices, "is what the City Precinct hopes to gain from us. Lieutenant Petrosino seemed to suggest that we could be of help. If it were truly the Anarchists, I doubt he would have these concerns."

"Of course it was the Anarchists!" Stringenfeld too raised his voice. "Czolgosz confessed as much in the Buffalo Precinct before his demise in custody. Emma Goldman and her Anarchist crew tried to distance themselves afterwards, as expected, and said he acted alone. There's no proof, of course."

"This is impossible," Way said to Cook, frowning at the hubbub of opinions that were raised in the wake of this. "Too many people; this meeting ain't secure."

"What's this about the Anarchists?" Cook was no political aficionado. The Guild didn't play sides or lobby groups; it would hand out industrial music licenses to those who offered the fattest purse, but ever since the most recent Spanish-American War of 1898 its biggest client had been the armed forces of the United American States, and warship and marching bands had brought House Nineteen-licensed battle songs to the front lines in Cuba and the South Pacific. Despite himself, Cook, like most songcasters, had patriotism pressed into his bones.

Way shrugged; Cook knew Way fancied himself as politically astute, and he'd arrived at this meeting early enough to hear the initial shouting. "Anarchists? They’ve been around for a while. They’re a communist group – exploited workers throw off their shackles and get rid of all landowners, kind of thing. The assassinatin' is new, though. Started in Europe - some Italian named Bresci shot the Italian king last year. We don't even have a monarchy, it makes no sense to have Anarchists here."

"Well, we have landowners and industrialists in plenty, and they pay our wages," Cook shrugged. He'd seen real oppression in the Confederate states; the Guilds and strictures of the new order were infinitely preferable to the old ways.

"Petrosino said the assassination happened in the Temple of Music," Stringenfeld was saying loudly, over the noise. “Before Czolgosz got into line to shake the President's hand, he played a song on the pipe organ at the Temple - guards had to ask him to stop. An eyewitness said the man was trying to songcast. I told the Lieutenant the Guild has no records of ever training or licensing the man, but Petrosino wanted us to reach out to the regional houses, and our European colleagues, to check whether that was in fact the case."

"An Anarchist was a _songcaster_ , was one of us?" Morrison protested. "Impossible. Petrosino ought not have let that man die in custody before he got to the bottom of this."

"Czolgosz may have been a rogue, or a European, you never know. We just need to make sure our houses are in order, that's all, or there'll be a new round of licensing legislature from the Senate." Stringenfeld raised his voice. "So can I count on everyone to make enquiries of all regionals with which they're affiliated? I have told Petrosino I would give him a report before the week is out. And keep this to yourselves - the last thing we need is word that there are songcasting Anarchists running amuck in the State of York."

There were mumbled sounds of assent throughout the room, and the atmosphere lightened: doors were thrown open and servants entered with trays of food and drink.

Cook was shoveling a breakfast roll into his mouth when Tiemann dug a warning into his side.

"I hear you had a run in with my boys from the Maroon the other day," Universal’s Lord Morrison said, casually, at Cook's elbow. "Petty battles don't interest me, but it seems you intercepted a package from a regional house from the Salt Lakes which might be worth my while."

Cook wiped the crumbs from his beard and took a long drink of Stringenfeld's strong black coffee before he was able to answer evenly. "Sir, I don't involve myself in packages - it's the petty battles where my strength lies. Your boys need to practice better spells if they'd think to match themselves against the Anthemic."

Morrison slid closer. "You know I've always wanted to sign you and the Anthemic. I'll throw in stock in House Universal, over and above standard Guild wage. And that Archuleta boy; we'll negotiate a lucrative transfer of his journeyman's contract - Fuller will have no option if you agree."

Cook tried to smile casually. "I'll think about it," he said. "Can't speak for Archuleta, though - haven't seen him since we picked up him and his package. Why don't you call on us one day? He might be flattered to have a patron so early in his career."

Morrison made a snorting noise. Seeing Tiemann's sidelong smirk and Fuller's approach, he summoned his entourage with a wave of his hand, and they made their grand exit.

Fuller frowned when Cook told him what had transpired. "If you've finished breakfasting, Mr. Cook, we should converse in private."

"There's more to this Anarchist issue than Stringenfeld is saying," Fuller muttered as Nineteen's carriage rattled back down the Fifth Avenue. "Mr. Cook, I want you and the Anthemic to keep your ear to the ground. I know you have songwriting duties, but the other teams can handle our contracted projects. Get out there, lift some cold ones, see if anyone's talking about people of talent who've expressed Anarchist leanings."

Cook's eyes met Tiemann's across the jostling coach. "You'd like us to trawl the bars along the fringe of the talented? That's no hardship," he said, and his Second's pierced mouth twisted upwards in appreciation.

 

*

 

Cook spent the better part of the day reviewing the Anthemic's live projects. They were halfway through a song to assist with the steelworks on the new part of the Dixon crossing; it was hard going, because the Rubenfeld steel band was pushing an eighteen-man configuration that stretched the edge of songcasting stability. For almost half a century the scholars of the great Guild of Songcasters of the American States had tried to write spells for larger bands than twenty without success.

Cook figured it would do Tiemann good to get away from the House on Fuller's incognito mission. Tiemann, the Anthemic's chief songwriter as well as its lead stringcaster, had already broken three pens in frustration just this week.

Bass-caster Anderson was the third member of their away team. A burly bear of a man, he had been a songcaster for fifteen years and knew not only the licensed players in all the Guild, but the talented who lurked on the fringes of their world - former Guild members fallen on hard times who'd not renewed their papers, or those whom nerves or alcohol had barred from the entrance examinations.

And if trouble were to occur in the shady boroughs of lower Manhattan and they needed to mount a quick and dirty defense, they'd have Anderson's bass beat to ground voice and strings.

The three had a quick meal in the House Nineteen dining hall, under old-fashioned candles and oil portraits of Nineteen's finest through the ages. This included a rather good one of Cook and the Anthemic by celebrated portrait artist John Singer Sargent, which Cowell had commissioned the year drum-caster Peek joined the band. The lads were depicted in the modern style, less florid color and natural poses, the scene filled with Sargent's characteristic lines and light.

When Cook looked up from his dry beef and potatoes, he saw a figure in journeyman brown standing in front of their picture. He grinned to himself: it took a journeyman from the outer reaches of the United American States, new to the big city, to stare at the Anthemic’s self-aggrandizing portrait as if it depicted the Founding Fathers themselves.

He slid his plate to one side and made his way over to David Archuleta.

"Do you think it's a good likeness?" he asked, by way of greeting.

Archuleta started a little. "Oh! Well, you all look very heroic. In the picture, that is."

"I take it you think that the real thing doesn't match up?" Cook asked, a little slyly, and watched the color rise in Archuleta's cheeks. Then he took pity: "Easy, lad, it's a joke. Not sure what they told you about us in Utah, but we're very informal here in House Nineteen."

"Oh," said Archuleta again. He was still blushing furiously. "Sorry. I haven't seen much of anyone since I got here, apart from Lord Fuller and Master Cowell, so I wouldn't know."

Cook eyed the lad with some sympathy. "You've been here five days and all of them with the most humorless men in House? Small wonder you're jumping at shadows. You should come out with us, see the big city, I bet you've never seen the like before."

Archuleta brightened visibly. "Really? I'd love to," he said, breaking into a smile. For all the shadows under his eyes - Fuller was clearly driving a cracking pace - he looked once again like the country boy he'd been five days ago, before he'd been saddled with a grimoire and asked to deliver it to House Nineteen of the great Guild itself in York City.

Cook had never seen the like: the journeymen studying to pass their songcasting examinations across the State of York tended to be more cynical in nature. Cook certainly remembered fetching up at House Nineteen himself when he’d come of age, wearing his father's Union coat, white guitar strapped to his back like he planned on doing battle at the slightest provocation, full of swagger and bravado and every confidence that he'd make a killing at the entrance examinations. Diffidence and enthusiasm was something new, and not unattractive.

The lad was quite comely, also: dark hair, Spanish eyes, an unlikely son of the rangy mountain fastnesses of Utah. Journeymen were considered fair game even by the reasonably sedate standards of House Nineteen, and Cook entertained brief thoughts of issuing Archuleta with an invitation to a more personal sort of tour than that of the City. It had been a while since he'd had cause to visit the Bowery whorehouses, and even longer since he'd taken a member of House to bed.

Cook reluctantly set considerations of libido aside. Archuleta wouldn't be familiar with the mores of the Guild; likely he'd been taught in Utah schools that all songcasters led celibate lives like men of the cloth – after all, American licensing statutes didn't permit songcasters to marry, their estates indentured to no wife or heirs save the House itself.

City journeymen knew better, of course. There might be no room for wives in the Guild, but there was pleasure aplenty to be had amongst the saloon girls and their own fellows. Ah well, there'd be time yet for Archuleta to become accustomed to their loose City ways.

That is, if Fuller and Cowell ever let him out of their sights. "So what's occupying your time with Lord Fuller? You can't be studying the book you brought day and night - is it really the Chronomicon? We have references to that book in our oldest Guild texts, but nobody has ever seen it."

Archuleta looked down. "It’s full of songs nobody's ever heard before - Master Cowell said they're supposed to help see into the future. Except we can't get the songs to work, even with Master Jackson on strings; I can sing the melody, but nothing seems to be able to hold the beat. Anyway, it seems it's only half the book, the front half? So that's probably why it doesn't work."

Cook thought about this. "I should tell Fuller to assign this to the Anthemic," he muttered. "If anyone can hold the beat, it's Peek and Anderson."

Archuleta put a fist to his mouth. "Right. See, I actually wasn't supposed to talk about the book at all."

"Fuller keeps no secrets from me, or at least he shouldn't!" Cook waved his hand in a hopefully reassuring manner, ignoring Tiemann's scowl from across the room. "We're headed out on a secret errand tonight, but tomorrow I’ll ask Fuller to give us access to the Chronomicon work. And then -" He risked a wink at Archuleta. "We hit the town. All right?"

And there was the blush again. A rather fetching one, at that. Cook smiled to himself, feeling Archuleta's gaze as he gathered Tiemann and Anderson and left the dining hall.

 

*

 

_The Bowery._

There should have been a theme song playing as the Anthemic hit the back room Bowery bars; something dark and jangling, from the Who back catalogue, or something by the Fall Out Boys.

Cook made a note to tell the lads they should write such a theme themselves when they had the down time.

They took the steam trolley from Fifth to Broadway, and walked the streets under gaslight, past crowded gutters and muck. The Bowery loomed out of the steam and fug: colorful ﬂop-houses, whiskey and gin joints, bums spilling out of the bars and lolling on the street corners, some shoved over for pennies by urchins and too drunk to pull themselves upright again. Cook stepped over a supine figure sprawled across the filthy sidewalk without breaking his stride.

The lads crossed the street, moving from oily light to darkness to light again, jostling with carts and vendors and patrons. They headed towards the bars off Free Man's Alley where they'd be sure to find the dregs of the talented - the rejects and the drunks, still dreaming of the days they'd held their songcasters' papers, or those who had never applied.

The Silo was a true Bowery dive, stifling and smoky, tin-framed mirrors and wooden furniture from the last century that had seen better days. It was early yet, but the place was filled to the gills.

The din of whiskey-sozzled conversation quieted momentarily when the three songcasters walked in, the anonymity of their plain coats negated by the instruments slung around their bodies. Damn, but it was obvious who they were. Cook was kind of counting on that, actually: it was easier to shake the rats loose with a stick as opposed to a carrot.

The Silo's bartender, a Greek man named Constantine Maroulis, nodded over the polished bar counter when Cook and the lads sat themselves down; he wiped the swill off the counter top and set a foaming tankard in front of each of them.

"It's been a while since we've seen you fellows in here. To what do we owe the honor?"

Cook leaned in. "Hoping you can help us with something," he said in a tone too low for the other patrons to hear.

Maroulis grimaced. "Doesn't sound like I'm going to like this, songcaster," he said. "You field boys coming here to my bar for business rather than pleasure, it doesn't seem right."

Cook grinned and took a long draught of ale. "It's always a pleasure to be here in Free Man's Alley. What d'you know about Anarchists?"

Maroulis snorted and shifted his gaze away from Cook's. "They want to take away what's ours, they strike on the docks and the railroad, it's a pain in the ass to folks who just want to earn a living. What's it to do with the Guild?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Cook saw Anderson quietly peel away from the bar counter and head, tankard in hand, towards a smaller table beside the fireplace. Cook knew Tiemann would keep Anderson in line-of-sight; the last thing they needed was to be split up in potentially hostile territory.

"Heard there were some Anarchists of talent," Cook said, meaningfully, "and we figured that were it to be so, we'd find them around these parts."

Maroulis shrugged. "Folks of talent come in all colors of crazy. There are those here that worship the grain and grape, those addled by the last war. Sure, there’d be some Anarchists in here.”

He nodded towards the fireplace. “See that dark-haired man over there? Name’s Lambert, he’s in the shows at the Knickerbocker Theatre. Supposedly from good stock but he’s always spewing the down-with-homeowners crud. And..." His eyes trailed over Cook's shoulder. "There's a lady with such sympathies, though perhaps she's more reason to have 'em."

Cook turned, recognizing the hourglass figure that sashayed over in the low light, careless of her skirts on the grimy bar-room floor.

"Mrs. Smithson, I'd forgotten you frequented this fine establishment. You were magnificent in _Belle of Bohemia_."

Carly Smithson, toast of the celebrated musical troupe The Garland, took off her hat. She was carrying a small mandolin case on her back. "What's a girl to do when she's out of the spotlight?" she enquired. Maroulis slid a tankard in front of her, and she drank deeply.

"What indeed," Cook murmured. "How are you, madam?"

"Keeping busy," was her wry answer; she laid her mandolin case on the bar counter. Maroulis ignored it, but the other patrons at the counter looked at each other uneasily at her not-so-subtle announcement of talent: a woman abroad in the Bowery, without a chaperone or need of defense beyond her skill with strings and fieldsong she'd written herself.

Cook hid a wry smile. The new suffragette movement was making waves across the State of York, but the Guild doors were as closed to the fairer sex as those of soldiers' barracks. At present the only avenue for women of talent was the stages of Broadway, where Mrs. Smithson's talent brought her almost enough renown to make up for her inability to raise her song in battle. Cook had told her how unfair it was on more than one occasion in this very bar, but those were the ways of their world.

"And what brings you here, David Cook of the Anthemic?" she asked softly. "Todd and I haven't seen you round these parts in a rat's age."

Cook looked into her dark eyes, wreathed in the gin-fumed funk of the bar. "I hear you're sympathetic to the Anarchist cause these days," he murmured.

She shrugged her rounded shoulders. "I've been to hear Emma Goldman speak. Lady makes sense. Men have made a right mess of this country, they should turn it over to us. We'll redistribute income, babes won't go hungry or be sold in the streets, we'll give the menfolk just enough to spend on whoring and whiskey."

"It's a nice dream," Cook said. "But you've always been a realist, Mrs. Smithson."

"Maybe so," she said. "In any case, I'd wager, most working girls would be sympathetic to the Anarchist cause. Even with that lunatic goin' after the President," she added shrewdly, and Cook raised his eyebrows. "That what all this is about, Mr. Cook?"

"Maybe," Cook said cautiously, and she leaned in closer.

"Then it's _not_ Anarchists you need to be lookin' for, I'm told. Mrs. Goldman says Czolgosz wasn't one of them. Not sure why the Guild's interested, but you fellows need to look further afield."

She nodded meaningfully over to where Anderson was deep in conversation with a broad-shouldered, bald man. Behind her, Maroulis's turned back was stiff and eloquent with something he was deliberately not saying.

"Thanks," Cook said, draining his tankard. "Give my best to Mr. Smithson, all right?"

"He'll be down shortly, you tell him yourself," she called after Cook as he and Tiemann got off their stools at the counter and took fresh ale over to where their bass-caster was sitting, in the company Smithson had pointed out.

The handsome man with the shining bald head introduced himself as Christophe Daughtry. His accent marked him as European. He said, carefully, that he was new in town; resting one long leg on his guitar case, he continued, "And I have papers, as I was mentioning to Mr. Anderson and some other gentlemen."

"That may not make you popular with many of the fellows here," Tiemann said, warningly, and Daughtry smiled.

"I am staying at the Whitechapel House along Brent Street and have been coming here to the Silo these past two evenings, and that is precisely what others have said. But I have encountered no ill challenge, for all that York is supposed to be unsafe for the unwary."

"You should register with the Guild," said Cook, and a drunk at the next table beside the smoky fireplace scoffed loudly and spat on the floor.

"Perhaps I will. You are from House Nineteen, is that right?" Daughtry pulled out a notepad and a charcoal pencil, and made an annotation in a language Cook didn't recognise. "Thank you."

At the next table, the drunk man - hardly more than a boy, with a fair shaggy mop of hair on his head, and none on his jaw-line, wearing a long green coat - said, loudly, "Fie on the Guild, we should tear these class systems down, fieldsong should be free for everyone -"

His companion, also beardless though somewhat less drunk, glanced up. Cook recognized him as the dark-haired showman called Lambert whom Maroulis had pointed out earlier. He was well dressed, even though he was offstage: a fine cotton shirt, close-fitting wool trousers. His pale skin still bore traces of stage makeup. The kohl around his blue eyes made them lustrous; he met Cook’s gaze warily for a moment before looking away.

Cook pitched his voice to carry. "These things benefit us all. Mr. Daughtry, I'd ask you if you're familiar with the group that call themselves Anarchists?"

He was gratified to see Lambert frown. His young companion vomited quietly under the table.

Daughtry raised his eyebrows. "They seek to destabilize the natural order of things. We know them in my native France, and it seems they have followers here as well in the American States. It's foolishness, though. I'd like to think we from the Old World know better."

"Perhaps," said Tiemann; Cook knew his Second's father had come from Germany, a careful trader who'd somehow managed to woo and win a southern belle of the Old South with a title and vast estates. Cook hoped Tiemann could read Daughtry's handwritten German, if that's what it was, or at least read upside down.

Cook settled back in his seat. They were surrounded on all sides by drunks and bums, either holding forth about their glory days or already unconscious in a wafting cloud of whiskey. Cook wasn't certain what Fuller had thought they'd achieve here, on the songcasting fringes in the underbelly of the Bowery, but they'd rattled some cages and discovered Anarchist teachings were widespread among the talented.

Carly Smithson had said the Anarchists had disavowed McKinley's killer, Czolgosz. How accurate was that, and how relevant? All Cook was certain of was that he needed another drink.

It was a couple of hours and several increasingly drunken conversations later when Maroulis beckoned them over.

"Not sure what you fellows are up to, but there's a message that Mr. Smithson brought me when he came to fetch the missus." Maroulis carefully wiped the wooden expanse of the counter, didn't meet Cook's eyes. "Says, if you want to talk to Anarchists, go round to the end of Free Man's Alley in ten minutes."

Well, would you consider that; their tactic had met with some success, after all. Cook felt triumphant, like he should offer his services to the detectives of the York City Precinct.

"Thank you," said Cook, and got to his feet, as did the other two. He pulled coins from his purse, and Maroulis palmed them.

"Mrs. Smithson mentioned you should watch yourself, Mr. Cook. And I'd also ask you to be careful: you and your lads should beware the Anarchists. Please arm yourself outside my bar, though," he added, as Tiemann dourly unshouldered his guitar case.

 

*

 

It was dank and foul in the end of the alley, steam curling off the damp cobblestones. The gaslight didn't reach into its recesses, which was probably a good thing. Cook had the sense of small, scurrying things underfoot, scuttling up the walls of the dark tenements that stretched above them.

 _Things in the walls, things underfoot..._ Cook experienced a sense of nausea, which he thrust away, unsheathing his own white guitar and shouldering its protective casing to his back.

Tiemann and Anderson flanked him, instruments at the ready. Out of the corner of his mouth, Anderson muttered, "Smells like a trap, Cook."

Cook swallowed. "Beat up," he told Anderson, and their bass-caster put his hands to the strings, laying down a low, thrumming bass line that seemed to make the thick, stifling air in the alley shiver and part.

Tiemann swung around to guard their rear, lead guitar pointed directly at the exit of the alley, from which a sliver of oily gaslight was visible through the steam.

"Stay back," Cook told Tiemann and stepped cautiously further into the gloom, his own fingers finding his battle A chord, his mind reaching inward to the dull glow of his talent.

Which was when he nearly tripped over a supine figure on the ground.

A florid face lifted to his out of a mess of white hair and rags.

"Greetings, songcaster." The figure reeked of gin, but his voice was surprisingly mellifluous.

Cook recognized the man he'd stepped over earlier from the trolley station. He tried to quell the sudden racing of blood in his ears, the sensation of things crawling along his skin. He was House Nineteen's premier songcaster, it wouldn't do for him to startle like a frightened child.

"Was it you who gave Todd Smithson that message for me?"

The man got to his feet. He was a tall, burly fellow; taller than Cook, even taller than Tiemann. "Aye," he said. "I heard the Guild had sought word of Anarchists."

He approached Cook slowly; in the darkness, it seemed as if things shifted under his ragged coat, swarmed at his feet. "We're law-abiding folk, songcaster, we want no trouble. We're as American as any born and bred here. We're the farmers and workers and builders of our fair country, we're as patriotic as the next man."

He leaned in closer, and Cook couldn't suppress a shudder. The stench was unbelievable. "But we have a mission, and if the Guild wishes to test us, or get in our way, you'd best beware, because we won't hesitate to defend ourselves."

Cook took hold of his rising bile. Anderson's beat thrummed up his backbone, strengthened him; he knew at any time he could jack into the earth's rhythm and the thaumaturgy would be there to defend them.

"And what might that mission be, sir?" he asked. "You said you were patriots - did you count shooting a President in cold blood to be a patriotic act?"

The strange man was silent for a long moment. Then he said, quietly, "Sir, our mission is to defend these shores. And defend this world, too, from those who might lie across the seas. And, no, shooting an innocent man in cold blood wouldn't be patriotic. That is, assuming one was reasonably certain he was a man at all."

"What?" This was Tiemann, who had moved closer to Cook and Anderson despite himself, or Cook's orders. "What are you suggesting about President McKinley, sir?"

The man grinned; for all his proliferation of white hair, Cook realized that he wasn't much older than they were; perhaps even younger than Anderson. "Sir, the President, God rest him, was a _man_. Human, not a thing from across spaces and time, the likes of which we've never seen. But if he weren't, wouldn't killing him be a sign of patriotism?"

"I don't understand," Cook said. "I thought you Anarchists pledge against the class system and landholding, not, not creatures who look human and aren't. Make sense, sir."

"We fight both those things, and a third," said a new voice behind them, and they swung around, Tiemann cursing himself for leaving his post and sending a searing lead guitar line into the alley in front of them.

"Stand down, sir," the newcomer drawled, unafraid; he raised a glowing gas-lamp to eye level. The wavering light illuminated the face and kohl-lined eyes of the showman, Lambert, from the fireside of the Silo. His drunken companion was nowhere in sight.

"You're an Anarchist?" Cook held on to the neck of Tiemann's guitar to prevent him from stringing power at Lambert and trying to take his head off. "That's what Maroulis told us in the bar. Do you songcast, too?"

"I have no papers," Lambert said softly, which obviously was no answer.

"And who is this third party you speak of?" Tiemann asked. His fingers were still splayed against the soundboard of his guitar.

The tall, white-haired man said, darkly, "There are always forces ranged against us, a European darkness to our light."

"Come now," Lambert said, chidingly. "This isn't a conflict between Old and New Worlds. There are also American traitors among _Anachronists_."

Tiemann held up his hands. "Look, gentlemen, if you expect us to understand this thing between you Anarchists and these, what did you call them? _`Anachronists’_? You better spell it out for us. Starting with: what's your handle, old timer? I'm sensing you have talent, too."

Lambert said, impatiently. "His name is Tay Hickson, he lives on Bowery streets, and he watches. You need us to spell it out for you? We don't want any trouble with the Guild, nor need its help, either. Be so kind as to leave us alone, sir, we can fight our own battles."

"Not if it affects us all," said Cook, softly, and the light from the gas-lamp flickered and guttered; Anderson's beat and Tiemann's lead line throbbed at the back of his skull, a promise of violence.

"Like you'd stop us," Hickson whispered, and _something scrabbled at his feet, under his rags_ \- an unearthly, beautiful high note burst from Lambert's throat -

\- and suddenly there was a press of men rushing into the alley, whooping and hollering.

"Hit the instruments!" a rough voice shouted, and Cook saw a flash of steel.

Damnation, it was too close in the alley for longer-range fieldcasting, and the cut-purses of the Bowery moved almost too quickly for the eye to track. But there wasn't a chance in hell that the Anthemic could be bested by common criminals - Cook pulled Tiemann’s strings and Anderson’s beat together and felt the power rise up through his throat -

“ _Gave my message today/It's been a long time coming, a long time coming_ ”

\- and concussive force blasted out of him; he felt Anderson at his back, Tiemann ducking out of his way, felt a hard body crash into him, a flaring pain in his shoulder -

“ _Judge a bullet on its weight/Shot you with the heaviest_ ”

\- and he swung his guitar, wheeled his voice around, and the thaumaturgy clubbed his assailant from him like a massive hand. He heard something crash to the ground with a thud.

Eventually the pounding music in his blood and the red fighting haze cleared. Cook found himself standing with Tiemann and Anderson in the alley. Five bodies lay at their feet in different degrees of consciousness; Cook thought the thug in the filth below his boots might be dead.

The Anarchists, Lambert and Hickson, were gone.

Cook pressed a wary hand to his shoulder inside his coat, and wasn't particularly surprised to see it come away wet. "Ah, damn," he said tiredly.

Tiemann scowled at him and jacked out of the beat. "Let me see, David." He put a hand on Cook's arm, and Cook winced.

"It's nothing, a scratch. Damn cut-purses will stop at nothing, won't they?" Cook toed the body at his feet. He felt himself shivering with the reaction to the fight, and with the pain of something that might have been more than a scratch.

Anderson said, "We should call the Precinct, but first we should get out of here, we're sitting ducks in this alley. Cook, can you walk?"

"I'm fine." Cook took a deep breath. "Yes, we should go. Tiemann -" He broke off, staring down at Tiemann, who had bent over the still figure at Cook's feet. "What is it?"

"Might be nothing," Tiemann said, "But this one's carrying a guitar as well as a knife. And he's wearing a gold trinket, very fancy for a common street thug."

 _Not common cut-purses, then_. Under the gaslight, the Anthemic stared at the hourglass-shaped pendant in Tiemann's hand.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Archuleta has a dream about the future. The Anthemic manage get the scrying song of the Chronomicon to work. Arch and Cook spend a day at the races in Coney Island, and later spend Cook’s winnings at the Opera, where Arch meets the mysterious Christophe Daughtry._

 

_House Nineteen, Friday, __ October 1901_

David Archuleta knew he was asleep in his journeyman's bed in the heart of House Nineteen.

 

_At the same time he's deep in the bowels of the Utah mountainside where he was born. The bonfire throws the volcanic walls of the cave into stark relief, casts grotesque shadows across the faces of the men around him, naked bodies daubed with animal blood. He knows he should recognize them: neighbors and homesteaders, ranchers and merchants. But all of them were strangers this night._

Hail to the Great Silver Bear of the Mountain. Hail to Usurus, Brothers of the Circle. He lies sleeping beyond R'yleigh. Let us give him honor. Hail.

_"Brother Archuleta, bring it forth," he hears someone intone, and he watches his own hands (large, hairy-backed hands) haul a snuffling animal on a chain into the circle of the men. It looks like a bear, barely a week or two old, but it’s deformed; it has more joints than it should, and it has a second mouth on the other side of its snout._

_There's a tall figure at the makeshift altar, on which rests a knife and a wide, liquid-filled bowl. As he wrestles the bear onto the stone, he looks into the bowl and sees his father's face._

Hail Usurus. He lies sleeping. Let us give him honor. Let us see him, until he comes again.

_The men chant. There's a flash of steel, and the screaming of a dying animal._

_And everything moves in slow motion; the world rending. Claws and fangs and redness, and a two-headed god rises, rears its head and roars into the endless cave..._

 

…Archuleta jerked awake in a sweaty tangle of sheets. He'd had the same dream every night since he'd come to the City of York with the Chronomicon.

It was strange he wasn't more disturbed about the dream. He'd grown up in the mountains, set amid the great salt flats, where people still talked about the gods of the earth and sky. His father, who'd come over the plains from across the border, had maintained an altar in their simple home. His mom and four siblings had thought nothing of giving thanks to the gods of the mountains in preference to the Christian Christ-figure hawked by the schoolmarms in the Murray schoolroom and the preacher at his Sunday pulpit.

He hadn't seen his father since he'd started his journeyman training at Salt Lake, and now he was here in York City he couldn't wire home easily; it would likely take the mail weeks to get to the Archuleta homestead from the main Salt Lake postal office. And what was he going to ask – _So, Father, what do you really think about animal sacrifice?_ No. The week had been strange enough.

He wasn't at all used to being in the City of York, either. The streets were filthy and crowded, the tenement buildings too tall, the City students and teachers all so cynical - everything was so different from the peace and open spaces of home.

Around him, his fellow journeymen were stirring. Archuleta sighed and got out of bed. He was used to starting his day with a brisk run, but he had no idea where there was to run here in the smog and squalid, teeming masses of York City.

He settled for a cold wash in the communal bathhouse, the rattling of the modern pipes an unheard-of luxury. He rested his head against the side of the tub and tried to curb his homesickness.

He eventually wandered into the dining hall, where the students were abuzz with the latest gossip. It seemed the Anthemic had been sent on a secret Guild mission to the Bowery last night, and David Cook, the Anthemic's lead songcaster, had been critically stabbed and lay near death.

Archuleta froze in the act of digging into his breakfast cakes. He'd spoken to Cook last night; he remembered Cook's smile, his casual offer to take Archuleta out to see the sights of the City - and after that he had headed out into a night filled with knives.

Suddenly, breakfast didn't appeal to him anymore. Archuleta got up and walked around the dining hall until he spotted Cook's blond Second, wearing an anonymous black shirt and trousers, clan jewelry gleaming from his ears and lower lip. There was a purpling bruise across his jaw.

Tiemann was sitting at High Table with Masters Cowell and Jackson in their full House dress. Beside him was a slender, dark-haired man whom Archuleta recognized as Andrew Skib, the Anthemic's rhythm stringcaster. Skib had his arm around Tiemann's waist and looked for the world like he wanted to climb into Tiemann's waistcoat.

Much to his own surprise, Archuleta found himself walking over and sitting down on the other end of the bench from Tiemann. As the four men turned to stare at him, he asked, "Mr. Tiemann, I heard about Mr. Cook. Is he all right?"

Jackson and Cowell exchanged glances. Arch realized he was holding his breath for Tiemann's response.

Tiemann's blue eyes narrowed. Then he said, slowly, "Archuleta, right? Saw you talking to Cook last night. He's fine. Took a scratch to the arm is all."

"Can I see him?" Archuleta didn't realize what he'd said until he'd said it, and he felt himself flushing hotly. Cook had come to his rescue when the Maroon had attacked in Central Park, had been kind to him and offered to show him York City. The thought that Cook wasn't in fact mortally wounded filled him with immense relief.

Tiemann's mouth crooked upwards, and Skib put his chin on Tiemann's shoulder in order to address Arch: "Of course you can, lad. We've just seen him, he's well enough to complain about his enforced bed-rest."

Cowell cleared his throat meaningfully, and Skib, glancing over, amended this to, "Sorry. I mean, you can see him after your studies for today are over?"

"About that," Tiemann said to Cowell. "Cook told me you were looking over the half of the Chronomicon the lad brought, but that you were having problems with the beat. You really should let the Anthemic have a crack at it."

Cowell and Jackson exchanged another look, and then looked pointedly at Archuleta, who was already beet red: at this point, Arch wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Don't blame the lad," Tiemann told Cowell. "Cook can wring information from a stone, as we saw last night. Come, Cowell, we can work on the book today."

"Neal," Skib said warningly, and it took a moment before Archuleta realized he was speaking to Tiemann. He realized, also, from the concern in Skib's tone and the look in Skib's dark eyes, something else as well. He'd known that songcasters were barred from taking wives, but clearly they found their way to other relationships. Obviously he had a lot to learn about the Guild.

Tiemann grinned, and took Skib's hand off his shoulder. "Nonsense, I'm perfectly well - I've had rougher nights at the Astors’ Opera Ball. We don't need Cook for this, either Andy or the lad can sing."

Skib glared at Tiemann, and Archuleta found himself smiling. Jackson smiled too, and then, reluctantly, Cowell joined them.

"All right," Cowell said. "Gather your lads, Tiemann. We'll meet in my music rooms at ten o'clock."

He paused to glare at Archuleta. "And as for you, Journeyman, I'd suggest you got some breakfast in you, because if you thought Jackson and I were demanding taskmasters, you haven't yet played with Nineteen's Anthemic."

 

*

 

Archuleta discovered the truth of that statement that day, when he met the rest of the Anthemic and settled into the serious business of songcasting practice.

The Anthemic's beat-caster, young Kyle Peek, fresh from the Guild examinations, ink barely dry on his license papers, had a rare gift - the heartbeat of the world pulsed in his veins, spun out in a shimmering, instinctive cadence on the drumskin and brass of his platform kit.

Anchoring Peek's youthful beat was the bass line of Montague Anderson, whose solid tempo was like a steel trap, tireless and unstoppable.

And Andrew Skib added his complex rhythm guitar, layering the sound with a progressive pattern that Arch hadn't heard before.

Archuleta had spent five days with the Masters of House Nineteen, with the house strings and beat-casters and Master Jackson himself on rhythm guitar. In the face of such expertise, the music lines spelt out in the forty tattered pages of half the Chronomicon seemed constantly within their grasp. But then something would invariably fall short, and the music would fail to ground, and the thaumaturgy would dissipate and fall away.

Masters Jackson and Cowell had already tried every trick in their arsenal - transposing the notes up and down a full octave, slowing down the beat, removing a set of strings and then adding them. Eventually, Cowell had remarked upon how the book's spine had been ripped through, finally concluding that perhaps the key was in the second half that was most inconveniently missing.

Of course, this was before the Anthemic went to work.

"Pictures are right strange," Peek commented, and Anderson shook his head.

Tiemann leafed through the stories, frowning. "Says here these songs break barriers of time, allow for seeing. There's never been songcasting that's done this."

"Do tell, Mr. Tiemann," Master Cowell drawled. "This is why the half-book Archuleta brought us is so interesting."

"And it's why you haven't shared with the Guild yet, that right?"

"Don't test me, lad," Cowell said tartly. "How would it look if I raised this with the Guild President, told him we think this is what these songs do, but we haven't been able to get them to work? Stringenfeld would piss himself laughing. Now, do you in fact have something constructive to say?"

Tiemann was quiet for a second, looking at the first song at the beginning of the book. "We'll need to practice before adding vocals," he said. "Peek, Anderson, let's try this one in a Rochester four time. Skib, you come in at the fourth, like this line says."

Archuleta listened as the most powerful songcasting band in the House went through their paces.

They ran through the music as Tiemann had asked, twice, three times, the tempo building, pulling together tightly in a shining barrier of sound.

On the fourth pass Tiemann's virtuoso lead strings slid into the flow of music, and a bright blade sliced through Archuleta's spine.

He only realized he was on his feet and singing a wordless A note, gathering the shining threads of thaumaturgy to him, when the strings faltered and went silent and everyone stared open-mouthed at him.

Archuleta sagged, like a puppet whose strings were cut, and Skib put out a free hand and held him up until he could stand again.

"I think we might be getting somewhere," said Master Cowell, with characteristic understatement.

Tiemann nodded to the boys and said, "Once more then, and this time, with feeling."

 

*

 

It was toward the end of the afternoon when it happened.

Everyone had broken for afternoon tea, a staple of Master Cowell's. The music had felt sluggish when they'd returned, and Tiemann had the boys cycle quickly through the song in faster tempo than prescribed, once and then faster again, and _then_ -

_"Through the circle of time we soar/Open our eyes and let us see tomorrow..."_

\- the song tore out of Archuleta, the A and then the cadenced D and a wavering high C which he reached for and held and then let it burst out of him as if it had wings -

 

_and then the grey light fills him, and he sees. Everything._

_Rows of bodies, laid to waste in shallow trenches on the tundra, cities under rubble. Advancing columns, regiments of foot-soldiers cut down on the front lines of a reality-changing war._

_Death brought by rifles, steel bullets, armored cars, poison gas, stretching across all of Europe - countries Archuleta's barely familiar with, but whose images now burn into his bones._

_There's a black, broken symbol – bayonets and bullets; fantastical naval ships that sail underwater and craft that fly on propellers through the skies, spreading death everywhere - and a very old, tired voice is saying in the Spanish which Archuleta's mother used to speak to him, "See you, this is what horrors Man will do to himself, in your time."_

_And Archuleta feels steel pierce his skin, feels the press of his fellows around him, falling, dying -_

 

...Very slowly, past images of blood and destruction, Archuleta struggled back to himself.

He opened his eyes. He was lying in bed somewhere dark, a single gas lamp lighting the room. Not the journeymen's quarters - an infirmary of some kind.

He felt a pressure on his hand, comforting. He thought it would be the nurse, but when he turned his head, he looked into the square, bearded face of David Cook.

Cook had his right arm in a sling. His eyes were very green in the gaslight. There was no reason for him to be sitting at Archuleta's bedside, holding Arch's hand with his free one, but there he was doing that very thing.

"Welcome back," Cook said. When Archuleta gaped at him silently, he continued, "Everyone was a little worried! Neal had said the seeing spell was a success, but they hadn't managed to stop it, and they had to bring you here." He grinned: "To keep me company, which was a real relief, I can tell you," and Archuleta felt his own lips turn upwards.

Cook squeezed his hand. "Would you like some water? I'll get the nurse."

Archuleta nodded. His throat was like sandpaper; it felt as if he'd sung himself dry. Cook summoned the night nurse, who tsked over and ministered to Archuleta. Arch wondered who had changed him out of his apprentice's uniform and into the loose sleeping pajamas which he was presently wearing - the thought was enough to make him flush again.

"So," Cook said, when the nurse had left them alone again, "Did the spell work? What did you see?"

Archuleta shook his head. - _rows of broken bodies, laid to waste in shallow trenches_ \- "Things," he murmured, finally. "Man-made things, weapons. From the future, I think. I couldn't recognize - I think there was a war. It was like the whole world was at war." His hands twitched with the memory.

"Hmm." Cook sat down and took Archuleta's hand again as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Visionary spells, clearly not the most targeted songcasting. Tiemann needs to try to refine the music."

Archuleta didn't want to tell Cook that he thought he'd been having visionary dreams without the express assistance of the Chronomicon or the Anthemic. Lying here, he felt as if all his fears were foolish.

"I don’t know," he whispered finally, and winced at how weak and defeated it sounded, how afraid. What if it were true that war was coming? “Men did those things, _made_ those things, what if those visions are a warning to us?”

Cook squeezed his hand. "They've had you working on this spell for a week like a rat in a cage, and now it finally works it fills you with visions so you can't stand. You need a break from this. Sleep now, and tomorrow, if you're up to it, I'll make good on my promise to show you the city. You’ll see its marvels, see that men make things that help make the world better, also, not just harm it."

"I'd like that, very much." Archuleta should have felt excited, should feel something other than the wave of weariness that covered him. Weariness, and the warmth of Cook's hand in his.

"Sleep," murmured Cook, as the tide of exhaustion started to drag Archuleta from the shore. Arch wasn't sure if he was dreaming, if he'd imagined Cook's presence, or Cook's next words. "In the morning, I'll be here."

 

*

 

_Saturday, __ October 1901_

Archuleta woke from a fitful sleep filled with bayonets, underwater ships, and a two-headed animal baying.

His head hurt. The sickroom was flooded in sunlight, illuminating white walls, clean linens, and the sleeping figure of David Cook in the next bed.

Cook was turning restlessly from side to side, murmuring something in his sleep. His good arm flung itself free of the bedclothes toward Archuleta, and Arch slid out of bed and leaned over him.

" _Father_ ," said Cook, and then, "Old Ones, Nyarlaothep,” and Archuleta frowned because it sounded like Cook was having the same dream as he’d been having these past five days.

He laid a tentative hand on Cook’s uninjured shoulder, and Cook jerked awake. At first he looked confused, and then he grinned unselfconsciously, and all considerations of blood and baying animals were gone from Archuleta’s mind.

Arch wasn’t sure if the infirmary nurse would consent to release Cook, but once Cook had sat up in bed and spoke charmingly to her and showed her he could move his injured arm without the need for a sling, she snorted her agreement, and left them to their breakfast trays.

“What shall we do on this day off?” Cook enquired, opening the New York Times which adorned his tray. “It seems the New York Giants are playing St. Louis at the Polo Grounds today. Do you watch baseball at all, Archuleta?”

“No?” The names were foreign to Archuleta. His father had not approved of ball games; too many opportunities for injury. Come to think of it, reading a newspaper over breakfast was kind of foreign as well.

Cook leafed through the paper. “How about a matinee instead? I’ve been wanting to catch Mr. John Drew in ‘The Second in Command’ at the Empire. It’s a military comedy.”

Archuleta flinched and tried to push away the images of armed conflict, which Cook took note of. “That wasn’t considerate of me. Maybe the Opera? And, rather than the ball game – let's see, we could take the ferry to Coney Island, watch the races at Sheepshead Bay at 2 o’clock. Is that more to your liking?”

“Oh!” said Archuleta. In the scant days spent readying for his York trip, he’d been told about the delights of the Coney Island boardwalk. “It has a famous carousel, doesn't it?”

Cook looked at him and burst out laughing. Arch blushed furiously - perhaps this was not Cook’s idea of an afternoon of laddish entertainment – when Cook reached over and briefly rested his knuckles against Arch’s cheek.

“Yes, it does,” he said, grinning; Arch felt he might never stop blushing again. “Coney Island, then. We’d best head out before Cowell arrives and decides you're well enough to take back to your books instead.”

Archuleta changed as directed into the simple shirt and trousers and country boots he’d worn when he’d come off the steam train from Utah. Cook dressed similarly anonymously, left a note for his Second, and seizing newspaper, hat and coat, strode out of the infirmary.

 

*

_Manhattan._

The autumn sky was cloudless, the morning sun heating the pavement. The streets had begun to clog with Saturday morning traffic: horse-drawn delivery wagons and buggies jostling with the new steam-engine motor cars along the Fifth Avenue. Above them, a small airship, someone’s pleasure craft, sailed lazily overhead, red and gold against the blue sky.

Cook walked rapidly, and Archuleta hurried to keep up with him, holding his hat to his head. They paced past street vendors, paperboys, well-dressed Manhattanites out on weekend morning errands. On either side of Fifth Avenue were the lavish brownstones of the last century. Cook pointed out the grand Vanderbilt mansion at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-Second Street, apparently a white limestone French chateau in the Loire Valley style; Archuleta had never seen the like.

“The Vanderbilts like to entertain,” Cook said with a wink. “The grande dame quite likes songcasters – I ended up escorting her to the Stuyvesants’ ball for the Hospital for Children at the Waldorf-Astoria last year. Had to learn to dance a quadrille; Tiemann never let me live it down.”

Archuleta couldn't help staring: of course he couldn’t imagine Cook in the role of a society escort. Cook grinned: “I can see you’re less than impressed. The Park Avenue station’s right here, let’s ride to Wall Street.”

Archuleta followed Cook into the gated roadside terminal. It was far less sooty and crowded than Archuleta had expected, and when the omnibus-trolley pulled into the station, Arch was taken aback by its shiny brass trimmings and new green paint on the sidings. The new steam technology seemed an obvious advantage on a clear fall day like this, with none of the expected smog or city pollution in the air.

Cook and Archuleta rode the trolley down Broadway to lower Manhattan, alongside well-dressed men in hats and errand boys with caps and clean faces. Archuleta’s eyes widened at the approach of the Financial District of the State of York, with its new steel-girded buildings measuring hundreds of feet tall.

“Here we are, Park Row,” said Cook, and they disembarked. The streets were quiet. It seemed the amassing of Wall Street fortunes was placed on temporary hiatus on Saturdays, although, according to Cook, the newsmen at the neighboring New York World Building were still working around the clock.

“I want to show you the views,” Cook said. “The doorman at the Gillender Tower won’t let us in when nobody’s working, but Mrs. Belmont’s cousin-in-law, August Jr., owns the Park Row Building, the tallest building in the world, and I have a standing invitation.”

The Park Row doorman did indeed recognize Cook, and tipped his hat to the two songcasters. Archuleta had never ridden a passenger elevator before, and although Cook assured him it was entirely safe, Arch winced every time the small box jerked and shuddered on its way to the top.

The top of the tallest building in the world boasted distinctive twin Art Deco spires, cunningly designed to serve as mooring masts and a depot for dirigibles. Cook and Archuleta exited the elevator onto the observation deck nineteen stories up, from which they could see a landing platform with a dirigible gangplank. A huge air balloon was approaching the platform, its silk stripes bearing the insignia of the great Park Row Realty Company, its crew occupied with the gondola rigging and letting down the weights for docking.

Arch swallowed. The jagged skyline of Manhattan rolled away from him. Uptown, there was the stretch of man-made buildings and scaffolds that signaled steel constructs that would very soon be even taller than this one. To the south, he could see the tip of the island and grand Lady Liberty. He felt unaccountably nervous, as if he wanted to clutch at Cook’s hand to prevent himself from falling off the side of the building.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” murmured Cook. “I have to say, nothing bespeaks the progress of technology than the skyscrapers of York City.” He looked sideways at Archuleta. “Are you in awe yet?”

Arch smiled despite himself. “It’s spectacular! But I’m not used to these tall buildings. I don't know, you're always kind of afraid that the builders haven’t got things right or the technology fails. So many new things, sometimes you wonder how good it all is, you know?”

Cook grinned. “You’re an old-fashioned lad, I approve. All right, no more high technology for us. We’re just in time to catch the twelve o’clock steam ferry from Whitehall Street. It’s a really big boat, that should be fairly old-fashioned, shouldn’t it?”

“I’m used to small craft you need oars to steer,” Archuleta said, and Cook laughed.

“Well, crossing the Hudson is a somewhat more challenging endeavor, so the ship’s a bit bigger.”

As promised, the Coney Island ferry was indeed larger than a simple fishing boat. The Whitehall Street harbor was filled with the smell of fish, and the sound of harbor-men shouting to one another. Cook stopped to grab a penny lunch from a nearby vendor, and he ushered Archuleta into the jostle of patrons hustling onto the bridge of the steam liner.

The sun was beating down in earnest when Cook and Archuleta climbed on deck. The salty sea breeze reminded Archuleta of home, but there was nothing in Salt Lake quite like the tang of fried fish wrapped in newspaper, which lunch they shared at the rail of the ferry’s prow, or the noisy, laughing press of men in shirtsleeves on their way to the races. Or – and the thought was enough to make Archuleta blush again – like the frank green gaze of the lead songcaster of the Anthemic, who’d chosen to spend this day at Arch’s side.

It took no time at all for them to arrive on the streets of Coney Island, resort isle and playground for all York’s finest. Archuleta watched the spectacle along the famous boardwalk, the fat circus men and bearded ladies and what announced itself as a show featuring live incubator children. Out on the beach, there were pavilions serving clams and beer, and groups of men playing raucous card and dice games which Cook named as three-card monte and "buck-a-luck".

They walked past the famous carousel, but Arch demurred when Cook looked meaningfully at him – after all it was getting closer to the time the races were to start.

Cook hailed a horse-drawn buggy off Steeplechase Row, and, together with a hundred or so other holidaymakers, the songcasters headed for the Coney Island Jockey Club.

It was, apparently, the seventh day of the Sheepshead Bay Fall Meeting, and Archuleta could see officials in straw boaters and ladies in picture hats lining the box seats. Cook paid the admission fee, and he and Archuleta joined the common crowd in the press of the lower grandstand. Arch thought the smell of horse and perspiring male bodies would be overpowering, but, truth to tell, it was actually fairly pleasant, coupled with the buzz of excitement in the air.

“Are you a betting man, Arch?” Cook grinned at the horrified look on Archuleta’s face. “I’m going to take that as a no. Mind if I place a small wager or three myself? I’ll be right back.”

Archuleta settled back into his corner by the rail of the track. More people were pushing their way into the stalls; some jostled against him, but for the most part the holiday crowd tried to observe some courtesies.

Someone moved in beside him into the space recently vacated by Cook; a slender man, hatless and in shirtsleeves, dark hair loose to his shoulders. Arch eyed him, and the man looked back, brown eyes shrewd and searching.

“Nice day for it,” the man said conversationally. “It’s your first time at the races, lad?”

“Yes sir,” said Archuleta cautiously, and the man unfolded his race papers.

“The big race today is the Ten Thousand Dollar Century Stakes. My money’s on Mr. Haggin’s Watercolor. The favorite is Farrell’s colt, Blue, but Watercolor’s in fine form and I think he’s gonna come through today. I think the track favors him.”

It was all Greek to Archuleta. “Sorry, I don’t know much about horses or the track.”

The man’s brown eyes crinkled. “Well, there’s always a first time for everything. And you don’t have to know much about the races in order to know good advice, right?”

“Are you giving me advice?” asked Arch, and the man’s gaze grew pointed.

“Perhaps, if you'd accept some from me.” The stranger shifted from one foot to the other; something glinted in the open neck of his shirt, a gold pendant in the shape of an hourglass. “And not just concerning today’s races, either. I know you, young songcaster. You’ve just joined House Nineteen, from the Salt Lakes where they still believe in the old ways. You might feel like a fish out of water here in the city, and with good reason, but I think you’ll find there are folks who appreciate the old ways here as well. You might want to reach out to them, if ever you find a need.”

Arch’s eyebrows must have climbed all the way to his hat-line. Who this man was and how he knew anything about him, he had no idea. Still, there were people on either side of them, the day was warm and welcoming, and the man’s eyes were steady and kind.

“It’s advice I’ll bear in mind, sir,” he told the man, and then Cook shoved his way back to Arch’s side, a bottle of soda pop and a paper bag in hand. He did a double take, obviously recognizing the man speaking with Archuleta.

“Why, Mr. Maroulis, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in daylight!” Cook stuck out a free hand, and the hatless man shook it.

“Nor I you, Mr. Cook. Now you see I don’t disappear in the sun, like one of Mr. Stoker’s vampyres. I see you’ve brought your young colleague out to see the sights!”

“Yes.” Cook gave Archuleta a sidelong smile. “Although I may be leading him somewhat astray. Tell me, Constantine, who d’you favor for the third race?”

“The Great Filly Race? Mr. Meyers’ Leonora Loring over Whitney’s Blue Girl. The time of the front runners are past, I feel; it’s time for the smart fillies to pull around.”

“I hope you're right, since my money’s on Loring,” said Cook. “I like to bet against the favorite, it’s better odds.”

“Always advisable to lay your money against the status quo,” said the man Cook had named Constantine Maroulis. He nodded to Archuleta. “It was good to meet you, David. I hope you enjoy your first day at the races. I’ll see you two around.”

“He owns a Bowery bar, and he’s one of the talented, except with no papers,” Cook told Archuleta, proffering his bottle of pop. “Here, try this: Coney Island Red Hots. Folks call them ‘hot dogs’ - they seem delicious.”

Archuleta took a tentative bite, and then a far more enthusiastic one. “These _are_ delicious. Say, did you mention me to Mr Maroulis? Because he seemed to know who I was.”

Cook tried to articulate around his mouthful of Red Hot. “No, not at all. Seemed to know you in what way?”

Arch looked away. “Dunno, he knew my name,” he muttered, unsure as to how to tell Cook what Maroulis had insinuated. There was likely nothing there anyway. In an attempt to change the subject, he said, “Look, the horses are coming around!”

The races got off to a flying start: fillies and thoroughbreds with their dappled flanks and elegant hooves, the jockeys wearing their patrons’ bright colors. Cook’s eyes stayed trained on the track; he raised his voice together with the crowd in celebration and then defeat.

Archuleta, high on the atmosphere of the racecourse and the sugar in the pop, couldn't keep his focus on the races. He kept looking at Cook, the color on Cook’s wide, handsome face under the scruff of his beard, the careless spread of his shoulders framed by suspenders and shirt.

“This is the third race,” Cook murmured to Arch, his eyes bright. He pointed out the filly on which he’d laid money. “The bookmakers were giving good odds on her. And they're off!”

Arch turned to the track. The filly which Cook had named Leonora Loring had pulled to an early lead, ahead of the favorite, Blue Girl, in the middle of the pack, who looked far and away the biggest and heaviest of the field. The nimble Loring drew clear as the fillies thundered around the bend into the stretch, the only horse at all near to her on the outside of the track at a clear disadvantage, and Cook threw a delighted grin at Archuleta – “We have this sewn up!”

Arch grinned back, and then a collective “Oh!” rose from the crowd. Arch craned his neck to see the favorite, Blue Girl, making a dash for it, flanks heaving, her rider plying the whip again and again. The favorite pulled forward – she passed another horse, then a second, a third, a fourth, closing the gap on the pacemaker -

\- Cook was shouting, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief: “Come on, _come on_!” and Arch couldn’t breathe - the roar from the crowd was deafening –

…and in a thundering of hooves, Leonora managed to hold off Blue Girl and cross the finish line first by just a neck.

The tumult of cheers shook the grandstands. Cook whooped and hollered, and then flung his arms around Arch.

Archuleta felt Cook’s strong arms lift him off his feet, knocking his hat from his head. He felt the rasp of Cook’s beard against his cheek, the warm press of Cook’s body against his. He’d never felt the like before. He possibly wanted to feel all those things every day for the rest of his life.

So of course he felt himself turn scarlet, and a spasm flail through his arms, and it was entirely understandable that Cook would let go.

When Cook set him on his feet again, Archuleta dropped to his knees and scrabbled on the ground for his hat. He straightened to Cook’s widely grinning face. Around them, cheering men were tossing their own hats in the air, or booing, the stands a tumult of noise. It was impossible to say or hear anything in the hubbub. Cook pulled Archuleta’s hat from his hands, set it on Arch’s head, and ran a lingering thumb over Arch’s cheekbone. He mouthed words which were snatched away by the surrounding noise.

“What?” Archuleta shouted back.

Cook put his mouth against Arch’s ear - Arch had to steel himself not to jerk automatically away. Cook’s breath was hot, and made his stomach twist, pleasantly. More than pleasantly. “ _I said,_ you’ve brought me luck! Come with me to fetch my winnings, and we’ll celebrate tonight.”

Archuleta followed Cook out of the crush of holidaymakers to the betting booths, where they discovered that there was some controversy over the Leonora Loring win – Mr. Whitney, the owner of Blue Girl, had lodged a complaint with the Jockey Club stewards, and until a full hearing was convened and determined on Monday, no wagers would be paid out.

“Easy come, easy go,” murmured Cook, grinning self-depreciatingly. “We’ll still celebrate, anyway, on Monday when they pay out.”

The races continued with the Ten Thousand Dollar Century Stakes and an even more controversial win by Watercolor, over the favorite, Blue. Come to think of it, Archuleta remembered that the strange man, Constantine Maroulis, had called this race, too.

When the races were over, Archuleta followed Cook and the crowd out of the club. The evening air had turned chilly. Cook looped his arm around Arch’s shoulders, pointed out the amusement park sights in the distance with his supposedly injured arm, and despite the fall night, Arch didn’t feel in the least bit cold.

When they boarded the return ferry, Archuleta thought he spotted a flash of Constantine Maroulis’ dark head. But when he turned and looked more closely, peering amid the steam and the running lights of the ferry and the stars overhead, the man wasn’t there.

 

*

 

_House Nineteen, Monday, __ October 1901_

“I said: it’s just the House box at the Opera. Cook wants to celebrate his race winnings, and thinks to do it with House business.”

Archuleta stared at his reflection in the glass and wished, not for the first time, that his hair was less rebellious. Wished, too, that Jason Castro wasn’t perched on the adjoining bed in the journeymen’s quarters, keeping up a running commentary on Arch’s preparations for the Monday evening entertainment.

Castro ran a hand through his perfect, Pre-Raphaelite locks. “If it was just business, Cook wouldn’t have invited you to dinner at his club, nor would he have sent along this coincidentally perfectly-fitting formal evening garb for you.”

Archuleta tugged self-consciously at his starched shirt cuffs. "I think this is from the House wardrobe. Cook told me songcasters are sometimes asked to escort debutantes and society ladies out to balls, so they need to dress for the occasion."

Castro grinned. "I heard songcasters are known in York society for their many talents, and it's not just singin' or playin', either. Can't marry, so they're free to pay attentions to any lad or lass without strings attached." He leered at Archuleta. "You should be flattered - seems songcasters don't often court journeymen, we're usually just good for a bit of fun. They usually bond after they're licensed, like the Anthemic Two and Three. Hey, I heard Tiemann and Skib courted at the opera too!"

"Cook and I are not courting!" Archuleta said, blushing. "You know back home, we never even talk about men courting each other.” Never, although Archuleta had known from a very early age that he wasn’t interested in courting women, and was glad not to have to marry. “Here, though..."

"Here, in the Guild, where no wives or women live, it's a way of life. And Cook is quite a looker, you could do worse -" Castro ducked as Archuleta threw a book in his direction, before snatching up his borrowed coat and making a dignified exit.

 

*

_The Union Club; the Metropolitan Opera House_

Archuleta had told Castro that the evening was meant to be entirely innocent, just House business, but it wasn't that easy to pass this off as such, not when Cook had actually rung for the Nineteen carriage to take them to dinner.

Over the course of their dinner at The Union Club on Fifth and Fifty-Third, which comprised an exotic meal of roast mountain lamb with chestnut puree and Maryland duck with orange salad, they did speak of House business - how Arch's session with Cowell and the Anthemic that day had gone, how after Friday's incident they hadn't attempted the seeing spell again.

But despite such legitimate conversational topics, Cook kept looking meaningfully across the elaborate table at Archuleta, his gaze as intent as Arch imagined a courting lover's would be. Arch watched in fascination as Cook fiddled with the heavy Asprey cutlery, smoothed over the starched tablecloth, fingers opening and closing restlessly as if he wanted to take hold of Arch's hand.

Afterward, they sat high above the stage in the fabulous Metropolitan Opera House, under the flickering illumination of the candles in the House Nineteen red and gold box seats. Arch found that whenever he glanced up from the _Faust_ score he’d borrowed from the Nineteen library, he was met by Cook's intense green eyes.

Master Cowell was in the box this night, together with some other songcasters from another House field band. Arch had asked him a little timidly if he'd had to wait long for the carriage to pick him from House, having been delayed by Cook and Arch's dinner. Cowell had said, "Not long," which probably meant that he had indeed been extremely annoyed.

Cowell had then turned to Cook, his low voice cutting across the opening aria of the handsome veteran singer singing the role of Dr Faust this night. "We missed you at rehearsal today, Mr. Cook. The boys and Journeyman Archuleta could have used your talents."

Cook shrugged. "Had to collect my winnings at the Jockey Club," he said. "I'll come to rehearsal tomorrow, all right?"

Cowell made a harrumphing noise, and brought his theatre glasses to his nose. Thus dismissed, Cook rose and went to stand beside Archuleta.

"Enjoying this? Lerou is one of the finest performing tenors in York City."

"Oh, yes!" Archuleta looked out into the stage, where the _Faust_ set - a drapery of red baize in the foreground and an erection of vaulted bookcases, framed by a cunning backdrop of arched windows and well-lit by the footlights - currently suggested the Scholar’s Germanic library. He waved the score and its libretto at Cook. "I used to read opera and orchestral scores at home, but I've never seen a real opera staged. This is amazing."

"Well," said Cook, "they say this production is as good as any in Paris or Vienna, and the Met orchestra is excellent. You feel the power behind the strings? You could almost think there was talent there. And Mr. Lerou, his voice sounds almost like yours in the lower ranges."

Archuleta felt himself coloring. "You haven't heard me sing properly, Cook."

"That night you got off the Utah train? When you and Castro sang the trousers off the Maroon? We have no one in House that sings like you. Your upper range – Lerou can’t match it: _Maudites soyez vous, ô voluptés humaines. Maudites soient les chaînes Oui me font ramper ici-bas._ ”

Cook's rich voice slid effortlessly into the French lyric, and, before he could feel self-conscious about it, Arch found the place in the score and joined him: _“Maudit soit tout ce qui nous leurre, Vain espoir qui passe avec l'heure, Rêves d'amour ou de combats.”_

Their voices blended with the twenty strings in the orchestra pit, and Archuleta felt the thaumaturgy rise from his toes, curling through his body. Cook reached for his hand; Arch felt the jolt of connection flare between them.

They both fell silent. Archuleta felt a little unsteady on his feet – their sung lines had sparked so much power, he thought if they'd continued singing, they'd perhaps be capable of tearing down the domed roof.

"I was right," Cook said into the stillness of the box. His eyes gleamed under the candlelight. "There's no one else like you."

Archuleta wasn't sure what to say to this, what he could say, with Cook standing so close to him that Arch could see the auburn of Cook’s beard, the curve of his mouth. Fortunately, he was saved by someone in House colors bursting into the box.

Cowell rose to his feet, frowning crossly - it was the height of rudeness to enter a box in the middle of an aria. But when he read the outstretched note, he nodded, summoned Cook with a flick of his fingers, and both of them left the box. Arch thought they'd return shortly, but the minutes stretched and they didn't reappear.

Nevertheless, the first few acts of the opera held Arch’s full attention. He applauded wildly when the curtain fell for the interval.

At this juncture, another man entered their Opera box. He was tall and broad, elegant in evening dress, and entirely bald. He spoke quietly to one of the other songcasters for a space, and then went to stand beside Arch at the horseshoe-shaped edge.

"Mr. Archuleta, isn't it? My name is Christophe Daughtry. I'm new to York. I've just signed with Nineteen."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Arch said politely, and they shook hands. "I'm new to York, too! How are you enjoying the City?”

Daughtry shrugged. “I find it too new. You Americans are too quick to tear down the old and build new things too quickly. Your airships, your trolleys, your skyscrapers. The heavy industries and weapons of war, which the Guild helps build. I come from France, and I also see there this growing willingness to throw away the old and embrace new things which we don’t fully understand. It troubles me.”

Archuleta frowned. He agreed with this; he vaguely remembered saying as much to Cook. “Oh, everything’s new in this city,” he said. “I guess it’s not really something everyone thinks about too much; it’s progress, or something like it. But you’re right, I always worry that the technology will fail, and where would we be then?”

Daughtry’s blue eyes held his. “You’re a bright lad,” he said. “That is a most valid concern.”

The orchestra struck up again, signaling the imminence of the next act. Daughtry nodded toward the stage. "Take this very play, for instance. This is a story which is also told in Europe. Germany’s Goethe made this into a play: _Faust: Eine Tragödie_ , and so did England’s Christopher Marlowe: _The Tragedy of Doctor Faustus_. It is a story about man's greed for knowledge and power. Faust makes a pact with the Devil. The Devil gives him knowledge and the keys to science and the mysteries of the world for twenty-four years, in exchange for his immortal soul. But such knowledge is quintessentially flawed, it comes with a price.”

As Daughtry spoke, the curtain rose on Act Four. Mephistopheles was importuning the virtuous soprano star in a church, of all places, bent on seduction as she knelt and pleaded for divine assistance.

Daughtry continued, "And in the end, what happens to Faust, to Man? The Devil comes back to claim his prize, and of course Faust pays the ultimate price for his greed. Faust feels remorse, then, of course. In his final soliloquy, he says, _Ah Faust, thou hast now but one hour to live and then thou must be damned perpetually. Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven, that time will cease and midnight never come_!"

Archuleta was finding it difficult to breathe. Daughtry's eyes shone in the dark.

"Like Faust, Man was not made to know all things. The Guild thinks it knows best, of course. Now that a great treasure has come, the Guild is trying to control it - but the treasure will master them. From the sunken depths, from the vast plains beyond our world, the Masters lie waiting."

Archuleta wasn't sure which was more unnerving: that he had no idea what Daughtry was saying, or that he thought he might have an inkling. _A cavern, a bloody summoning, a two-headed bear god rising..._ He settled for, "How do you know about the Chronomicon?"

Daughtry nodded as if to himself. "Six weeks ago, in the Loire Valley, we discovered the other Chronomicon half, the European Half. And we uncovered the Silver Key in Germany, which is in the possession of Captain von Ahlen. He will come to the American States when the time is right."

"What do you and this … this Captain plan on doing with your half and this Key?" Archuleta knew he was out of his depth. "You had better talk to Lord Fuller, sir. This is beyond me, I'm just a journeyman, I don't know much at all."

Daughtry's blue eyes gazed steadily into Arch's. "You're a journeyman with extreme talent, Mr. Archuleta. The American Half found its way to you for a reason. I have indeed spoken to Lord Fuller, and to your Mr. Cook earlier, but I think it's you whom we may have to count on when the time comes."

"And who are you? What are you planning on doing?" Arch's voice sounded tinny to his own ears, struggling to understand.

Daughtry said, "You'll know about us soon enough, Mr. Archuleta. We are known as the Anachronists, because we believe that the time of Man is past. Through the Chronomicon, we seek to right the proper flow of history. And when the time comes, you'll know, too - to the Temple will come the true King."

Daughtry nodded to Archuleta. "We'll meet again soon. Please send my regards to Mr. Cook." He sketched a salute at Arch, and then slid through the door.

For some reason, Archuleta was unable to concentrate on the Opera thereafter. The brocade and gold around him, the fine sets, the plush velvet and vaulted arches, all seemed hollow, made by men who knew little and understood less.

He didn’t stop shivering until Cook returned to the House box during the final act.

"That is the strangest damned thing," Cook muttered when Arch told him what had happened. He put his hand on Arch's shoulder. "It sounds like the man Tiemann and I met in the Silo last week before we were attacked.”

Cook frowned. “And, what he said about the true King… We just received word that the new King of England will be coming to town on a clandestine visit."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which House Nineteen prepare for the Royal Visit. Cook and Archuleta discover the truth about the summoning song. The Anthemic ride an airship and spend the day at the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition of 1901 in Buffalo. The Bowery burns. Cook and Lambert have a conversation, and Archuleta discovers the secret that’s really buried under Grant’s Tomb._

_York City, Tuesday, __ October 1901_

Tiemann said, "That night Daughtry wrote to himself in German: the boy lives at Nineteen. Bastard _knew_."

The Anthemic were closeted with Masters Jackson and Cowell in the latter's wood-paneled study. Portraits of Cowell's native Britons lined the walls, denizens from his former House Electric of the Kingdom of Britain and a small vignette in oils of the great Queen Victoria herself, dead earlier that year after fifty jubilee years of reign.

Cowell said to them, rubbing his forehead, "I'm not cut out for such intrigue. According to the intelligence you gathered in the Silo, Czolgosz _wasn't_ working for Anarchists when he assassinated the President - it was another group called _Anachronists_ instead. Then this Frenchman, Daughtry, comes to register with Nineteen cool as a cucumber, seeks out Archuleta, and tells him that he and some mysterious German captain are in fact Anachronists and have the other half of the Chronomicon, which they'll deploy when the time comes.”

Cowell shook his head. “I have to say, Mr. Cook, this sounds like the plot of some penny dreadful, or a Boy's Own Adventure novel, and we haven't gotten to the denoument yet. Maybe I’m slow, but I just don't see the connection."

Cook made an effort to stay calm. "The Anarchists and Anachronists are obviously connected. Hickson and Lambert said the Anarchists protect the world against Anachronists. They also said the President might have been less than human, so killing him might have been a patriotic act."

Tiemann shook his head. "No. Lambert said McKinley _was_ human, so it wasn't them that did it - the bastards who attacked us in the alley weren't Anarchists, they were _Anachronists_." He flung the gold hourglass pendant on to polished surface of Cowell's roll-top writing-desk. "We need to beware Daughtry and this Captain von Ahlen."

Cowell sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We have nothing concrete to take back to Stringenfeld," he said.

"We need to be circumspect," said Anderson, "Otherwise Stringenfeld and House Sony-Bertelmann will have the Silo turned inside out for harboring unlicensed talent. The Guild just needs an excuse."

"We can't protect those unlicensed bottom-feeders, nor should we want to," snapped Cowell, and Anderson's face set grimly. "Anyway, we have the King's visit to prepare for, and I don't wish to be distracted from this. As I told Cook, he'll be here in a fortnight on an unofficial visit to President Roosevelt."

Cowell leaned forward confidentially. "His Majesty and entourage will be staying at the White House, of course, but he asked to meet me. When he was the Crown Prince, and I was a young songcaster in London, we had occasion to meet, and I ended up assisting in the selections to his personal guard. So he wants to visit House Nineteen, and to see the World's Fair before it's disassembled. His Majesty is very interested in thaumaturgy and modern technology."

Skib said, "This isn't the first time Edward's been in America, right? I remember my folks saying that he came to visit when he was still a young prince and Buchanan was President. I remember Papa Rob was pretty excited about it."

"I see this is why you're such a Royalist," Tiemann smirked, and Skib widened his eyes comically at the Second.

"Oh, so _I'm_ the Royalist, am I? And I’m the one who likes to dress in uniform, and play at _For King and Country_ -"

“Okay, lovebirds, that's quite enough," drawled Cook; Peek was grinning openly. Tiemann cuffed Skib’s cheek. Cowell put his head in his hands.

"You lads are really taking this seriously, aren't you? We need to keep the news about the King strictly confidential. Nobody outside this circle should know.” Cowell glared at Cook, who tried his best to keep his expression innocent. “I know _someone_ shared this information with Journeyman Archuleta, but in retrospect it’s no harm for the lad to know. You’re working closely enough with him as it is on the Chronomicon, something’s bound to slip.”

“Yes, about that.” Cook leaned forward. “We should move carefully with the Chronomicon study. You saw the spell actually works, but I’m not sure that flooding the journeyman with oracular visions is going to help.”

Cowell’s mouth quirked upwards. “Your solicitude for Archuleta is commendable, Mr. Cook. I’m glad you raised it. I was going to suggest we try the scrying spell with you as songcaster in Archuleta’s place.”

 

*

 

Fortunately or unfortunately for Cook, the scrying spell didn’t work for him. The Anthemic ran through the same tempo configuration which had operated so spectacularly last Friday, to no avail.

When Archuleta showed up in the practice rooms after luncheon, still wide-eyed and pale from his encounter at the Opera the previous night with the Anachronist Christophe Daughtry, he suggested, “Let’s try both of us singing.”

They had to add another set of strings – Jackson’s – to balance for the extra vocals, and then the spell caught fire.

 

 

_…And Cook saw an older man who looked just like Archuleta, naked and bloody and holding down a small, double-headed bear in a cave, surrounded by other worshipers, heard the rising chants calling forth their god, their Old One, out of the fire and the longest sleep…_

_They both saw the march of tanks crushing limbs and heads of soldiers, the hail of gunfire, the spray of arterial blood. Saw many limbs, things scrabbling in the dark, long grimy tentacles shifting in depths beneath the world._

_Then the visions shifted, and they saw Leon Czolgosz in the press of the receiving line, President and Mrs McKinley approaching with their entourage, and then Czolgosz pulling away his handkerchief from his pistol and opening fire; the President falling, Ida McKinley screaming shrilly and almost inhumanly, Czolgosz_ singing, _talent crackling through him for an instant before the President’s servicemen tackled him to the ground…_

 

 

…And they jacked out of the spell together, arms around each other. It wasn’t clear which one of them was holding the other up.

Cook buried his wet face into Archuleta’s shoulder. “I, I think we need a moment,” he whispered to Cowell, which was how they ended up banished to the infirmary once more.

They lay in adjoining beds in the curtained dark, silent for a while.

Then, “No more of that spell,” Cook whispered fiercely. “We weren’t meant to know the future. Even if war is coming. Even if Anachronists of talent killed McKinley. We shouldn’t know.”

Arch said, tentatively, “About my father…Cook, I had better explain.”

“That your father worshipped the Elder Gods? It’s not that hard to understand.” Cook held his hand out to Arch’s in the dark, and felt the lad’s warm fingers clasp his in a death grip. “Have to say, it kind of explains your distrust of technology.”

“I grew up in Utah, it’s not something you question. And maybe Father thinks mankind can’t be trusted with its own destiny.”

“Well. I’m sure your father has reason to believe what he does.” Cook squeezed Arch’s hand. “But it’s not a reason to give up hope in mankind.”

They were silent for a long while, their hands linking them. Cook could hear Archuleta’s uneven breathing, was acutely aware of his own desire to climb into bed with Arch and kiss his fears away.

He stopped himself with some effort: it would be a breach of trust to approach the lad at this time. There’d be occasion enough for that later when Arch was in full possession of his faculties. They just needed to stop trucking with that damned spell, which turned everything on its head.

 

*

 

_House Nineteen, Wednesday, __ October 1901_

Neither Fuller nor Cowell was too pleased at Cook’s refusal to try the scrying spell again; a reliable oracular spell would fetch top dollar amongst government and commercial circles.

Cook attempted to appease them by promising to ready the Anthemic for the confidential royal visit to House and to the World’s Fair in Buffalo, and to see if there were other serviceable spells in the Chronomicon.

Accordingly, the Anthemic spent the next few days poring over the rest of the half-book. Its forty or so pages contained meandering, cautionary tales, strange illustrations, and four actual songs. The first two, including the one which Cook and Arch had triggered, were written for the standard set of voice, strings and beat, and seemed to concern breaking barriers of time, between the past and the future.

The remaining two songs seemed to be about breaking barriers between _worlds_ , if the narratives were anything to go by. One had a very complex chord structure designed for an 18-man band and seemed to summon assistance from the nether world – Cook remembered he’d taken Archuleta to watch _Faust_ , where the Scholar had done this very thing.

The other, which seemed incomplete, was scored for an organ, which was itself highly unusual - songcasters had discovered that keyboards were poor channels for the strings portion of fieldsong, and, through the ages, organs had traditionally lent themselves to un-grounded, vocals-centric church music rather than thaumaturgy.

There was a picture beside the spell: a sketch of a dome, with four entranceways at each cardinal point, a statue in each entrance, and a silver pistol.

And the lyrics comprised the refrain:

_To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall._

Cook was glad the song seemed incomplete. He didn’t relish trying to cast it; from the look on Archuleta’s expressive face, it didn’t look like Arch would have been keen to try, either.

 

*

 

That evening, the Anthemic Five returned to the Bowery in force. It was Peek’s first time in the Silo, and his mouth hung open for a good few minutes until Anderson brought him ale to occupy it.

The bartender, Maroulis, told them he hadn’t seen Daughtry or Lambert since last Thursday. Todd Smithson threw his big, inked arms around Cook and said, “I heard you lads were attacked after I passed you that message! I told the missus, we’re having nothin’ more to do with those Anarchists!”

“I don’t think the guys who attacked us were Anarchists,” Cook tried to say, but Smithson was hearing nothing of it.

“I told you the Anarchists were bad news,” Maroulis muttered darkly, and that was the note on which their evening ended, without mention of Cowell’s threat to turn the Silo inside out in search of rogue songcasters harbored on premises.

 

*

 

_Saturday, __ October 1901_

The following day, after waking from yet another nightmare, Cook decided he’d had enough of poring through the disturbing old grimoire. His team looked a little on edge – they were a field band, after all, and used to more action – and Archuleta was looking worn out, like he could do with some fresh air and a day off.

Edward was scheduled to arrive secretly with his personal entourage in a week’s time. Cook told Cowell the lads would head to Buffalo and scope out the World’s Fair ahead of the King’s visit.

The Anthemic could have made a three-hour journey to the upstate town of Buffalo by railcar from the new glass and steel Grand Central Railway Station along Forty-Second Street, or the more leisurely steamer cruise up the Hudson. Instead, in the interests of saving traveling time, the Anthemic chose to ride the Pierce Arrow-sponsored Exposition Airship which plied the exclusive airways between downtown York City and the World’s Fair Exposition site itself.

The Five and Journeyman Archuleta and boarded the first dirigible at eight o’clock from the low-rise platform at Madison Square Gardens. They left their identifying insignia and instruments behind, although Tiemann would not be parted from his field guitar and could not disguise his clan tattoos and jewelry.

“I didn’t realize airship fares were so expensive!” Arch said to him, as they walked gingerly over the dirigible gangplank to the gondola.

Cook shrugged. “Companies do well out of it; it’s faster than the railroads, and they supposedly spend the money developing better safety in the air. Of course, we help them with the development – our commercial airborne song is pretty good, if I do say so myself. Come on.”

Archuleta looked nervous as he climbed carefully into the basket of the airship _Arrow_ , and clung to his selected seat at the prow of the airship. Cook quelled his urge to take Arch’s hand; he knew his team would rib him mercilessly if he did so.

Peek and Anderson piled in alongside Cook, while Skib and Tiemann took seats at the aft section, no doubt so they could indulge in some hand-holding of their own.

The ground crew uncoupled the _Arrow_ ’s rigging, the airmen fired up all engines, and, in a flare of heat and light, the aviator took her up.

The Saturday morning air was crisp and clear, the smog and soot of the day yet to set in. The airship rose to just below cloud level, providing its occupants with an unparalleled view of the Southern Tier and the Hudson Valley. Cook felt his spirits lift like the colorful orange and blue silk stripes above their heads.

To his right, Peek was making some crack about the Finger Lakes region below and Anderson was rolling his eyes; to his right, Archuleta closed his eyes. Cook was struck by the purple shadows under the lad’s eyes.

“Not sleeping well, Arch?”

Arch jerked his eyes open. “I’m having the same dream, except it now also has in it President McKinley being shot. I think I scared Jason and the rest of the journeymen this morning.”

“Me too,” Cook whispered. “I thought getting out today might help.” He knew he should be trying to puzzle out what this meant, all the pieces were there for him, but for some reason Archuleta’s sleeplessness seemed to be his most pressing concern. “Why don't you rest for a while? It's a long trip.”

Archuleta blinked slowly at him. Beneath them was the verdant eastern countryside; above them, the magnificent arc of the airship’s balloon and a cloudless sky.

Cook raised an eyebrow, and silently proffered his shoulder. Archuleta slept against it throughout the two hour ride.

Cook was sure that the other lads were making jokes just out of earshot, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Archuleta’s sleeping face.

 

*

_Buffalo._

In October of 1901, the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition was winding to a close. Its festivities had been clouded by McKinley’s assassination, but the Saturday crowds were still a sight to behold, and the mile-long expanse of its exhibitors had never before been seen in all the American States.

Archuleta, still dazed with sleep, seemed disbelieving that the bright new world on display was not some fantasyland to which he’d been transported by thaumaturgy. He stared at the Court of the Fountains as if it were an apparition: the magnificent stretch of the Esplanade with its surrounding chain of fountains and bridges, the plaza by the Sunken Gardens, and the great steam fountain at North Bay.

The World’s Fair set out to bring together technological inventions and advancements of the modern world, the state of the art from around the world - Tiemann was especially taken with the new electrical technology, and led the Anthemic purposefully into the Manufactures and Liberal Arts building and the Machinery and Transportation center.

Skib had to physically restrain Tiemann from purchasing the latest mechanical gadgets on sale at the merchandising stalls – “Neal, we have enough little devices with gears on, we don’t need another one that dispenses ink for your pens!”

“But I need new pens, also,” Tiemann complained, and Skib rolled his eyes.

After a quick lunch at the central parade, with the afternoon heat falling onto the Exposition grounds, the Anthemic belatedly headed over to the place of their mission, the Temple of Music.

The Temple’s Spanish-revival colors and octagonal dome were centered between the Rose Garden and the States Government Building, in line-of-sight of the Niagara Falls Turbine Tower.

Although the Temple had been designed for the main ceremonies of the World’s Fair, McKinley’s assassination onsite had clouded its luster, and there were no more than a handful of other visitors to its graceful halls.

A hush fell over the Anthemic as they walked under the molded archway, under a sign in gold leaf with the emblem “MVSIC” in Roman characters. The dome described a parabola in light blue hundreds of feet above the ground. The floor was inlaid with white and scarlet marble. There were rows and rows and rows of wooden seats: according to the advertising card, the Temple could seat over 2,000 people.

Running against the north-eastern wall was a shiny gold and red panel depicting a mass of angels playing instruments. Against it was the largest pipe organ in all the American States, the long brass pipes stretching five or so times a man’s full height.

Cook walked over to the large instrument. It had been placed behind a velvet cordon as it was clearly not in service today, but he reached across the rope anyway and ran a hand over the rich, gold-inlaid wooden paneling, fingered the ivory keys.

“Cook,” someone said, tightly, behind him. Tiemann.

Cook turned, and saw the configuration of the hall from a wider perspective.

Around the hall: four cardinal points of the compass. Four entrance portals, each graced by an ornate sculpture. Echoing the last picture in the Chronomicon, before the half they had had been torn away from the half they didn’t have - the picture which illustrated the barrier-sundering spell scored for an organ.

The Anthemic were silent; Archuleta looked like he wanted to throw up. Cook just knew he was on the cusp of understanding, if he just thought about it enough, maybe, or had one more piece of the puzzle…

There was one certainty amid the mass of unknown: Edward was coming to the Temple of Music in the World’s Fair Exposition in a week’s time.

The apparently unlinked events of the last two weeks - Anarchists and Anachronists, rogue songcasters and Presidential assassins, the American half of the Chronomicon and the European half in the custody of the mysterious Captain von Ahlen - all seemed to run to this one event.

 _Bring to the temple the true King._ It looked like Daughtry might get his wish.

 

*

_York City._

"It's too dangerous!" Cook said to Cowell. He felt exhausted and unkempt. He hadn’t had supper, nor had he any desire to consume it - the return journey had been challenging, the rising air currents from the uncommonly hot day making for a rocky airship ride that had made half a dozen passengers hurl their lunch over the side.

Archuleta wasn’t accustomed to airborne travel, whether under his own steam or someone else’s, and he’d spent the entire journey green to the gills, clinging to the portside railing.

Anderson was probably the most unaffected, which was why he was at Cook’s side and in the line of fire for this crucial meeting with the House Nineteen triumvirate. Everyone else was seated in the armchairs the back of Fuller's study and trying to remain upright.

Cowell raised his eyebrows at Fuller, who sat in his high-backed chair and steepled his fingers.

“It’s a difficult call,” was what Fuller said, finally. “I do see where Mr. Cook is coming from.”

Cowell frowned. “My Lord, you can’t be serious. We’re considering telling His Majesty King Edward of the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, _`You’d best cancel your trip, we fear for your life at the hands of American Anarchists’_?”

“ _Anachronists_ ,” corrected Anderson.

Cowell ignored him. “My Lord – Simon – consider how foolish we’d look. We have no details, no evidence, nothing but speculation derived from an old songbook and Bowery bar rumor. On the strength of this, how can we deduce this has to do with the King?”

“I don't think we could do otherwise!” Cook made an effort not to shout, which was only partly successful. “I agree we know little that's concrete. But McKinley was assassinated in the Temple of Music, and everything we do know indicates that Edward may be in the same danger if he heads there himself.”

“ _`Because rogue songcasters desire to open the portal into another world’_?” Cowell’s sarcasm could have cut new-manufactured steel. “I can see how that’ll go over in the Court of King James.”

Fuller placed his hands flat on the ink-stained surface of his desk. "I've heard enough. Mr. Cook, your concerns are noted, as are yours, Master Cowell. We'll tell His Majesty's entourage of rumors that a World's Fair trip might be a concern. We'll only supply more details if they ask. Then this places the responsibility for the decision in their hands and takes it from ours."

He looked at Cook and Cowell, and they both nodded grudgingly.

Cowell said, "We need to decide what we tell Sony-Bertelsmann."

Fuller nodded. "That we do. Tell them we've discovered the Silo's harboring unlicensed Anarchist songcasters. Let their field band turn the place inside out."

Cook sat up in horror, but it was Anderson who said, loudly, "They'll raze the place to the ground!"

"What if they do?" Fuller's voice was ice.

Cook tried to think; behind him there was rustling, he knew Skib had placed a warning hand on Tiemann's arm. Maroulis wasn't an Anarchist, but he needed to be warned - Cook needed to get word to the Smithsons, as well -

Jackson's deep voice drawled, "Hardly seems fair, Simon."

"No, but neither are we responsible for Stringenfeld and his attack dogs." Fuller looked at Jackson's stoic face, and then at Cook's and Anderson's outraged expressions. "I have to report to Sony, gentlemen, it's not negotiable."

When they stumbled out of Fuller's study, the first thing Cowell said to the lads was, "Don't even think of going out there tonight."

Tiemann snarled, "As if you're going to stop me," and Skib said, " _Neal_."

Cook held up his hands for order - his crew wasn't going to go renegade on him, damn it. At least not by themselves. "Look, Cowell, we all know some of those folks. Jackson, come on, this is a complete farce."

Cowell frowned, and into the stillness, it was Archuleta who said, in a voice that shook, "Do we burn unlicensed songcasters now in York City?"

The lad looked pale, as well he might. Cook put a hand on Archuleta's arm and felt the heat shivering under Arch’s skin.

"Not all the time," Jackson replied dryly. "Gentlemen, you've had a long day. Take your supper and take to your beds, we'll handle things from here. Mr. Cowell and I will make sure Mrs. Smithson isn't part of the Sony action."

The Anthemic looked at each other, in the wake of Jackson and Cowell's departure. "How long do you think they have?" Peek asked cautiously, and there was the question: a day or two at best.

Cook said, "Showers first, lads, then supper. We meet in the morning to discuss after we've had a night's sleep under our belts. Arch, you can come too."

 

*

 

Cook should have been more surprised when, three hours later, he ran into Anderson, Tiemann and Skib at the west gate, the one which was never manned by footmen. The lads were all in anonymous black, instruments at the ready.

"Damn it, Neal, I told you boys to wait for my cue!"

"The same way you're waiting, ain't that right?" Tiemann returned. He put his hand to the gate. "Wasn't gonna involve the kid - our airborne song will work without Peek's drum platform, though Anderson will have hell's own time filling the extra gaps now we have you."

"Less talk," said Cook; he'd planned on flagging down a buggy, but this would obviously be faster.

Once they were out in the muck of Fifth in the dead of night, Anderson's searing bass line filled the frigid air. "Jack in then," he said, and the Anthemic One, Two and Three launched into their airborne song.

 

*

 _Fifth Avenue_.

Archuleta wasn't sure whether he'd taken leave of his senses. He couldn't understand why he had stolen out of the safety of House after Cook and the others, why he was here on the streets of Manhattan, jogging after the accelerating figures of the Anthemic's Four. There was no way he could keep up with the airborne songcasters; already their black clothes were vanishing rapidly into the night sky and the fog.

He had an inkling where they were headed, though.

A buggy rattled past, and he hailed it, marveling at his own daring. On Coney Island, Cook had flagged down a cab in exactly this manner.

"The Bowery, please," he said, and the hansom driver turned to stare at him.

"It's gonna be wild, kid. Word is something bad's going down. You sure you wanna head out there?"

Arch pulled coins from his pocket. "Please just drive," he said firmly.

The streets of lower Manhattan had looked so different in the daytime - clean and straight, skyscrapers and old-style brownstones rising side by side in a progressive pattern, the old giving way gracefully to the new. A shining future city peopled with gracious, well-dressed men and women, that had unrolled its wonders to him from his vantage point at Cook's elegant side.

Now: muck and filth everywhere, rubbish clogging the gutters, dirty-faced urchins and staggering drunks, thick steam rising from holes in the sidewalk, gaslight making ominous shadows out of the twisting alleyways and tenement buildings. The buggy's wheels splashed through the damp roads, the horse's hooves kicked up dirt, passersby shouted and cursed and someone threw a clod of earth at the window, making Arch flinch.

Archuleta had scant time to ponder the fool's errand he had embarked on. In no time at all the driver pulled up onto a street crowded with pushing, shoving, shouting people, and said, "I ain't going further. You want off, it's now."

"Why? What's happening?" Arch fumbled for his purse, tried to stare out of the window at what the crowd was doing, what they were gaping at, or trying to get away from.

"Can't you see?" the cabby muttered, taking the coins from Arch. He nodded up the street, where a faint orange glow could be seen to the fog over one of the squalid alleys. "Something's on fire."

 

*

 

_The Bowery._

The bastards hadn’t even given them the day or two Cook thought they’d had.

The lads from the downtown fire department were doing what they could, but it looked like the Silo was a lost cause, together with the other bars flanking it; the firefighters were now merely trying to contain the blaze and stop it from spreading throughout Free Man’s Alley. Smoke mixed with great gouts of steam from the hoses of water pumped in from the nearby fire hydrant.

Cook had lost track of his people: he saw Anderson with buckets of water, Tiemann and Anderson carrying possessions and children alongside grimy-faced men and women with winter coats thrown over their pajamas, evacuating the nearby buildings in the night.

Cook himself felt frozen to the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder with other gawkers, staring at the crackling husk of the Silo. He’d done this. He’d put this in motion, and he’d been too damned late to stop it.

Someone reached out to grasp his arm. Cook turned, half-expecting Malcolm Young from Sony’s first field band, Direct Current, and instead looked into the blue eyes of the Anarchist showman, Lambert.

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Cook,” Lambert drawled. His skin was devoid of adornment, plain street clothes covered in soot, but he held himself as if he needed no other embellishment to look of import and indeed he didn’t. He seemed to be wearing heeled boots that made him a good deal taller than Cook. “Come to gloat?”

“Look,” muttered Cook, “I didn’t know they were serious about this. I came when I heard, I came to help…”

“Too late now,” Lambert said simply, and left his hand on Cook’s arm as they watched the flames together.

Cook swallowed. “Do you know…do you know if anyone was inside when they torched the place?”

Lambert shook his head. “I saw Maroulis in the beginning when the Sony fieldcasters came and rousted the bar, but he made himself scarce fairly early on. They took away a couple of the patrons with some talent: I saw them take Richardson and one of the French lads, Matthew Giraud. And then after that…” Lambert shrugged. “The Silo started burning.”

Cook felt lightheaded from the smoke. “I’m gonna kill Young and that damn Lord Stringenfield.”

“Ah, save your strength,” said Lambert, not unkindly. “The Guild doesn’t know anything, and after a couple of days they’ll let the others go. Richardson and Giraud are harmless, the Guild would gain nothing by injuring them. Actually, they could be of use to Sony – both of them are strong singers, and given a House that’ll sign them they may keep their licenses.”

“And the people made homeless, the lives this destroyed?” Cook struggled to keep his tone light.

“No more important than defending our shores from the Old Ones from over the sea,” said Lambert in his beautiful voice, and it was as if the world shifted a fraction from its axis.

“What do you mean?” Cook asked, very slowly.

Lambert’s eyes seemed as deep as the ocean. “The less the Guild know, the less they can interfere. But you, David Cook, you can make a difference, you can help us. You know who’s coming to our shores, coming to the Temple of Music. Or, you might say, _what’s_ coming.”

Cook saw again the two-headed bear god, things scrabbling in the dark, long grimy tentacles, a President falling. Before he could say, _“How do you know?”_ , Lambert’s eyes flickered over his shoulder; he said, “Mr. Smithson, Miss White,” and big Todd Smithson reached out to grab hold of Cook.

“David, our home’s been barricaded, the officers say it’s not safe, I can’t find Carly, Brooke and I have been looking everywhere, you have to help us -”

“Steady, Todd,” Cook said, offering his arm to Miss White, Mrs. Smithson’s soprano co-star, shivering under an ermine-trimmed blue velvet cloak. “I think I know where Carly might be. Master Jackson said he would look out for her.”

“Thank God,” said Smithson.

Miss White drew away from Cook, glaring at him. “`Master Jackson said’ – Mr. Cook, you _knew_ about this?”

Cook couldn’t meet her accusing blue eyes. “I came to warn you. I thought I had more time. We need to get back to House Nineteen, they’ll have taken her there.” The soprano hesitated, and Cook said, “Miss White, it’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself.”

“I’m no safer with you!” she snapped, but Smithson said, “Brooke, _please_ ,” and after a moment she nodded in assent.

“Let’s go,” said Cook; he hoped he could get a cab from further up the Broad Way. No idea where the other lads were, but they could take care of themselves.

Over Miss White’s shoulder, he saw the last, warning flash of Lambert’s sapphire eyes.

“Help us,” Lambert said, quietly. “Kill the breed of Kings, or the Old Ones will walk again.”

 

*

 

The smoke made Archuleta’s eyes water. He’d pushed his way through the crowds, one part of which seemed to be jostling aimlessly towards the fire, the other part rushing frantically away.

A toddler fell to his knees in the dirt beside Arch; automatically, he stooped and snatched the wailing boy up into his arms before a pack of bigger urchins and someone’s horse cart could run him over.

“Hey, little fellow! Don’t cry, it’s just a scratch!”

“Mamma,” bawled the mite; Archuleta looked frantically into the milling throng for his missing parent, wondering if it might be taken amiss if he were to shout, “Anyone lose a baby?” Fortunately, the boy’s mother surfaced from the crowd; the boy held his arms out, and Arch surrendered the child gratefully.

When he turned around, he looked into the familiar face of Christophe Daughtry.

He’d last seen Daughtry in formal Opera dress. Daughtry was now in workman’s black, cap pulled low over his bald head.

Daughtry was supporting another man under his arms, a slighter, blond man, no taller than Archuleta himself; when Arch took a step towards them, the man’s knees seemed to give way and Daughtry had to hold him up.

“Archuleta,” said Daughtry. He looked exhausted. “Please, help us. My friend is hurt; I need to get him away -”

Archuleta hastened to Daughtry’s side. He saw one side of the blond man’s face was covered in blood; Daughtry swept the man up into his arms with some difficulty.

“Oh no. How did this happen?”

“The Guild came into the Silo, Lewison tried to stop them, and they struck him down.” Daughtry’s face twisted in a grimace. “We were loading our things into a cart, but I'm afraid the horse may have bolted..."

"Where did you tie the cart up?" Archuleta asked, like he knew the City at all or knew what he was doing.

Miracle of miracles, the cart was still in the yard, the bay horse placid in the stalls. Arch climbed into the back, settling himself amongst trunks and boxes and packages, and Daughtry handed over his charge.

"Take care of him," Daughtry said, and Arch pillowed the blond man's head in his lap as Daughtry moved away to release the horse and lead him out of the yard.

The man stirred as the cart jerked into motion. Archuleta pulled out his pocket handkerchief and dabbed cautiously at the bloody face.

The head wound actually didn’t look too bad; Archuleta had only the vaguest idea of practical medicine from his boyhood on his father’s farm, but the gash seemed to have stopped bleeding, and the man flinched under his touch, rousing himself with a gasp of pain.

“Can you tell me your name?” Archuleta asked. This was what he’d heard you had to ask patients who had taken head injuries in case their wits had deserted them.

“I’m Lewison,” the man said, slowly, his light eyes a glaze of pain. “What happened – where am I -?”

“We’re in a cart, headed somewhere safe.” Arch tried to sound reassuring. “You’re free, the Guild haven’t captured you.”

Lewison closed his eyes for a moment, then said, tightly, “Christophe? The man who – “

“Mr. Daughtry is driving,” Archuleta said, and Lewison’s face softened with relief.

“Thank the Gods,” he said. “We’d be lost without him. We’ve been waiting for so long for him to come to us from over the sea, to bring us to the light again.”

Archuleta patted Lewison’ shoulder awkwardly, wondering if Lewison’s wits had in fact been somewhat addled by his injury. “I know,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting voice, the cart rattling over cobblestones into the night.

They rode for almost an hour; Archuleta wasn’t clear about the passage of time, sitting in the swaying cart with Lewison, the dark sky rushing past. He thought he saw the curve of the Hudson River, and then there was greenery around them, and the cart finally came to a halt on an unmarked path under a swathe of trees.

Lewison said, “We’re here,” and Archuleta helped him struggle to a sitting position.

Daughtry came around the siding of the cart; he held out his arms and Lewison climbed shakily down into them.

“Ah, you’re yourself again. I was concerned you’d taken serious injury –” Daughtry’s voice trailed off, he couldn’t continue.

Lewison clasped him around the shoulders, reaching up. Archuleta scrambled from the cart, blushing a little; he looked away to give them some privacy, and tried to take stock of his surroundings.

They seemed to have arrived in a quiet park on the bank of the Hudson River, trees and terraced gardens stretching around them. Behind him there was a huge granite and marble structure; over its entrance, two reclining figures and the carved words “Let Us Have Peace”.

“Where are we, Mr. Daughtry?” Archuleta asked curiously at last.

Daughtry responded: “This is the tomb of your President Ulysses S. Grant. The park is closed to the public now, but I know a way in.”

Archuleta followed Daughtry and Lewison through the dense grass around the structure, under the main staircase. Set into one of the columned walls was a narrow grate, which Daughtry unlocked, using one of a fistful of keys. A passage led down through a narrow terrace and a door which opened into the tomb itself.

Archuleta's eyes opened wide. They stepped into a wide sanctuary, guarded by busts of Civil War generals. On the walls were mosaic murals and sculptures bearing emblems reading "Victory" and "Peace". The space formed a large central oculus, revealing on the lower level a granite sarcophagus which appeared to be of the President himself.

"Grant served in the Mexican War," said Daughtry soberly. "And of course he was instrumental in the American Civil War, where hundreds of thousands of Americans lost their lives. This monument should remind us about the atrocities of war and men’s monstrous cruelty. It's a fitting site for those of us who want to bring back the old ways."

Archuleta frowned at Daughtry; he didn't understand. Instead of explaining further, Daughtry walked over to the bust of Civil War general William T. Sherman, fiddled with the base, and an adjoining flagstone slid to one side, exposing a dark stairwell.

Daughtry helped Lewison to descend; Archuleta brought up the rear. The stairs ended in a corridor that was pitch black. "Careful here, feel your way along the walls," said Daughtry, and Arch did so for many long minutes.

Eventually, a light flared in the darkness; Daughtry had opened the door at the end of the corridor. Archuleta hurried along, and found himself in a chamber lit by torches.

Sheer stone walls and floors, a couple of paintings in raw, bold colors, instruments lining a low rock shelf. On a couch sat a bearded man with long, wild hair almost down to his waist, whom Arch didn't recognize, and a dark-haired, clean-shaven man, whom Arch did.

"Why, it's Journeyman Archuleta," said Constantine Maroulis, from the racetrack.

"He came to the Bowery to see if he could help," said Daughtry, assisting Lewison over to the couch. "If he hadn't, Lewison and I might not have made it out here."

The bearded man rose and fetched a basin and cloth and started to tend Lewison' wound.

"I knew he was a courageous lad," said Maroulis. "Please be welcome here, Journeyman. Will you take some wine?"

Archuleta finally found his voice. "What is this place?"

Maroulis poured wine for him anyway, as well as for Daughtry and Lewison, setting rough goblets before them. "Boris, you want to answer the lad?" he asked. "Archuleta, this is Lieutenant Bice, who oversees our research intelligence."

The tall, bearded man put the bowl to one side, looked at Archuleta with thoughtful eyes. "This is the place where we Anachronists in York City now gather, under Grant's Tomb. This chamber was installed at the behest of Mrs. Julia Dent Grant, who was an intimate of Mrs. Ida Saxton McKinley’s and sympathetic to our cause. Our number has met here for years – and now that the Guild decided to torch the Silo and target unlicensed songcasters, we had nowhere left to go."

Bice shrugged. "As for who we Anachronists are - we're one of the singing orders of the Elder Ones. Like your father, we guard the Kings of the Gods, descendants of the Old Ones who used to rule the world."

Maroulis leaned forward, trying to explain. "Our fight is with the Anarchists, who seek to slay the Kings. The Anarchists had Czolgosz kill McKinley." His dark eyes held Arch's soberly. "They'll try to kill Edward, King of England, and descendant of Old Ones, when he comes to visit the Temple of Music in seven days' time."

And how did Maroulis know about King Edward? Archuleta said, "Wait. President McKinley was descended from Old Ones, that's why he was killed?"

Lieutenant Bice said, "No, the Anarchists' research was flawed. It wasn’t the President. It’s Ida Saxton McKinley who is descended from the Western strain."

Archuleta must have looked skeptical, because Maroulis said to him, "Would you like to see?"

"Blake may not be up to it," Daughtry began, but Lewison pushed up to a sitting position and a hissing rhythmic beat issued forth from his throat, strange and sinuous. After a moment, Bice rose and walked over to the ledge to pick up a guitar.

Daughtry sang a rich A note and held his hands out to Arch.

Arch recognized this - the scrying spell from the Chronomicon. He hesitated: did he really want to get involved with these people and the Old Ones they served?

When he realized he was already involved, he took Daughtry’s hand and matched the steady A.

"Through the circle of time we soar/Open our eyes and let us see tomorrow..."

 

 

_And Archuleta saw: the Old Ones bestriding the earth, grave in their majesty. The grief of men when the Gods left, leaving behind Kings and Queens who held of the Gods’ seed: the second, secret head of the Great Bear, the many-jointed Red Queen, the shivering stillness of Anabis of the Antarctic._

_He saw these Royals who lived for years in the shadows, saw the secret orders who protected them, the Anachronists through the ages. Saw Ida McKinley at her husband's side, powerless to protect him from the Anarchist singer whose target should have been herself._

_And then, the song shifting, he saw again tanks of metal rolling death through the streets, men dying in freezing trenches. Saw lads his brother's age lying on beachheads, trapped in metal tubes under the sea._

_In one corner of the world people were herded into camps like animals. In another corner, children who could be his little sisters were staked in the sun._

_And finally, he saw the world shaking itself apart in the shape of a hideous mushroom cloud._

_Everything he knew, family and friends, teachers and the Guild, everyone he loved, his mother, his siblings -_ Cook _\- ending in fire._

 

When Arch returned to himself, he was shivering; he felt wetness on his face, felt sick to his stomach. The spell song from the book he'd found, the song that Cook had sung with him - it said war was coming, and that the world, the world was ending.

He had collapsed onto the couch. Someone was holding his arms: Maroulis.

"Are you all right, David?" Maroulis helped him drink from the goblet of wine; Arch coughed a little, but did feel somewhat better afterwards. Eventually he sat up and leaned against the hard back of the couch.

Maroulis continued, "This song is one of our key weapons, passed down from our fathers. The other songs were lost to us after our last great war with the Anarchists of Europe, when the Chronomicon was torn in half and both sections hidden from our enemies."

Archuleta couldn't speak. He couldn't get the images from the song out of his head.

Daughtry was sitting on Arch's other side. "You have seen the horrors to come. There'll indeed be a great war, many people will die, and then another great war in which mankind will exterminate itself. My country'll be at the center of both wars. I want to stop it, if I can."

Arch looked into his eyes; he believed Daughtry.

Bice said, "This is why we wish to petition the true King to agree to open the portal between worlds, and, if he wishes it, to let his fathers, the Old Ones, rule again. The middle song in the Chronomicon turns the lock."

"What does the song do?" asked Arch, finding his voice at last.

"Two things. First, the Anarchists are very, very powerful. They have a man named Captain Lambert, who is the strongest songcaster in York City, stronger even than you are, Journeyman. The song will help us defeat Lambert and the Anarchists, and save the King's life."

Bice closed his eyes for a moment, then continued, "The second thing: if the King so desires, we can open a portal between this world and the next, so that His Majesty can see his fathers, the Old Ones, again."

"But my half of the book just talks about the portal," said Arch, numbly.

Bice said, "The part that tells how to defeat the Anarchists is in the half of the book that Captain Daughtry brought from France. The last component, the Silver Key, is with Captain von Ahlen, who's coming soon to the American States. With the Key we can finally defeat the Anarchists and bring the Old Ones back.”

Daughtry leaned forward. "So, will you help us, David? The choice to bring back the Old Ones will be the King's, always and forever."

Archuleta looked into Daughtry's deep eyes, seeing the world ending in a blaze of light. Seeing his family consumed in flames, everyone he cared about.

Help the Anachronists save the King? Help prevent a war in which everybody died? This was what the Chronomicon was meant for: this was what the spells and visions and the Bowery burning tonight had brought him to.

"All right," Arch said in a voice that didn't sound like his.

Daughtry closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said, and Lewison leaned over to clasp Archuleta's hand.

"We'll let you know when it’s time," said Maroulis. "Why don't you stop with us tonight, son? In the morning, we'll take you back to House Nineteen."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Cook and Archuleta finally compare notes. The King arrives at House Nineteen; Captain von Ahlen arrives in the United American States. The final showdown between Anarchists and Anachronists takes place at the World’s Fair._

_House Nineteen, Friday, __ October 1901_

Master Simon Cowell surveyed his troops - the two most powerful songcasting bands in House Nineteen, flanked by the Masters and other teaching staff.

"Right, gentlemen, I take it that everyone knows their places tomorrow. Do I need to run through this one last time?"

Cook saw Tiemann roll his eyes expressively. Elevated by his status as an intimate of the King, Cowell had been holding twice-daily meetings of those in the know for the last six days in preparation for the royal visit. It was really getting on Tiemann's nerves.

Cook himself was inclined to allow Cowell a bit more slack these days. He still hadn’t entirely forgiven Cowell for taking a hard line with the raid on the Bowery last Saturday. But Cowell had kept his word and intercepted Carly Smithson on her way to the Silo and diverted her to House Nineteen instead; the Smithsons and Miss White continued under their roof and protection, notwithstanding that House Nineteen had never harbored woman nor wife in recent memory.

And when Cook had demanded audience with Lord Stringenfeld to plead for the freedom of the unlicensed songcasters taken into Guild custody, rather than trying to stop him, Cowell had seen fit to accompany him.

It had been Cowell’s practical remark as to how, if the unlicensed lads had actual talent, they might be pressed profitably into service for the Guild, which had found favor with the Lord.

When they finally hauled the prisoners out from the Guild inner chambers, Cook had recognized Richardson as the drunken blond boy whom he had seen in Lambert's company on that long-ago Friday night at the Silo, after the Guild meeting. There’d been a flash of recognition in Richardson’s blue eyes, also – clearly the lad hadn’t been as drunk as he’d then appeared.

Richardson turned out to have a fine tenor voice, and Cowell had been pleased to sign him on as a journeyman. The Guild had agreed to a bond for his year's wages, and Cook had tried not to gnash his teeth at the stripes the Guild's jailors had already taken out of the lad when he'd been in their custody. The same arrangement applied to the mild-mannered Frenchman, Matthew Giraud, who had also been captured in the Silo raid and who boasted an interesting, reedy baritone.

Cook knew the dour Master had a certain fundamental decency about him, and it was this which had prevented Cook from storming into Sony's offices and leaving the Guild for good the day after the Bowery raid. Cook could live with being pledged to the Guild's strict rules of conduct - lest Congress decide to implement even stricter song licensing laws - but he would not abide needless cruelty, and was gratified to have that reinforced by the strictest Master of House Nineteen.

Accordingly, Cook mustered some enthusiasm to respond, "We understand the timetable, Mr. Cowell. His Majesty arrives at House with his entourage at four o'clock and takes the tour, then has supper with Masters. Then they leave at seven o'clock on the White House airship."

What Cook didn't mention was that the Anthemic would have left before then, to secure the Temple of Music site with the King’s elite guard for His Majesty’s clandestine visit.

Cowell nodded and said, “Right, everyone, let’s get a good night’s sleep. Big day tomorrow, bright shining faces and all of that.”

“We should really turn in early,” Cook said to his crew once they’d left the common room.

Predictably, this was met with derisive laughter. “No telling what’ll happen tomorrow,” Tiemann said. “Masters think they’ve got this under control, but I’ve a bad feeling about that damned World’s Fair and no mistake.”

Skib said, grinning, “Neal thinks we’re in danger of our lives, and I’m taking full advantage. It’s a late dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria for us, and everything that comes after.”

Cook groaned. “Fine. Don’t wear yourselves out; I want you both able to walk later.” He turned to Peek and Anderson. “And how about you lads, a quick dinner, perhaps?”

Peek blushed, and Anderson wrapped a burly arm around their drummer’s head. “Lad doesn’t want to die a virgin, so I’ll be accompanying him down the Broad Way to pay court to the fine ladies of the Bending Lilac tonight. Some of the boys from the Circle are coming with.” He paused, and looked more closely at Cook. “You wanna come too? Looks like you could do with some relaxing.”

Cook was taken aback by his response to Anderson’s question. It had really been too long since he’d indulged the needs of his body. It took some effort to push the hot rush of blood away. “Someone needs to keep a clear head tonight. Everyone should still be able to use their hands and voices tomorrow, so I don’t want anyone to indulge in anything too strenuous, understand?”

“Let the ladies do the work? I think I can handle that,” Anderson smirked; Skib said meaningfully, “You know Neal doesn't need to _sing_ tomorrow,” and Cook couldn’t get them out of the door quickly enough.

Were they really in danger of their lives? Maybe Cowell was right – maybe the Anthemic were jumping at shadows, and there were in fact no dueling cult groups lying in wait to assassinate the King and to open a portal to old gods, or machines of war and death.

With such thoughts on his mind, Cook found he’d wandered into the journeymen’s common room, not-exactly in search of David Archuleta.

He hadn’t seen Archuleta for days. He’d exchanged a quick word with him the morning after the attack on the Silo, when he met Archuleta in the entrance hall, but for most part he’d been too busy to speak casually to anyone, shuttling to and from House Sony to negotiate the release of the rogue songcasters and planning the King’s itinerary with Cowell and Fuller.

Arch wasn’t in the common room. His friend, Castro, said he hadn’t been attending classes – “I thought he was still with you, doing the special study?” he asked Cook, laconically, and Cook shook his head.

Cook was wondering where Arch had gotten to when the lad himself came around the landing in his street clothes, pulling his coat off. He stopped when he saw Cook, his face brightening at first, and then clouding over slightly with an uncertainty that puzzled Cook.

“Arch, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately. Come have dinner with me?”

“I’ve eaten,” said Archuleta, a little reluctantly, “But of course I’ll sit with you if you haven’t.”

“I was going to have a tray sent up to my chambers,” Cook said, entirely honestly.

Archuleta didn’t even blush. “All right.”

The serving boy did enough blushing for the two of them when he set the dinner things out on Cook’s small table. Cook couldn’t imagine why: it wasn’t as if he made a habit of entertaining handsome young students in his rooms. Why, he was practically a monk.

The boy poured wine for them both. Cook watched Archuleta surreptitiously as the journeyman strolled around his rooms, inspecting the well-loved novels on Cook’s shelves, his lithographs of famed songcasters and the huge Union flag, the framed hand-drawn world map hanging above his bed.

"Is that your family?" Arch asked, peering at the silver-framed photographs that adorned Cook's ink-stained writing desk.

"Yes. My parents. My older brother Adam, his wife and children, my little brother Andrew, who's a journeyman in Missouri." Cook joined Arch at his desk and ran his fingers over the surfaces of the photographs, the familiar, loved faces smiling up at him. A songcaster by profession, Cook would never have a family of his own; in this moment the thought filled him with melancholy.

“I have four siblings myself,” said Archuleta: this was clearly the Utah way. “I miss them. It’s easy to forget that when you’re out here.”

“Well, I’ve had five years to get used to it.” Cook thanked the serving boy and then nodded Arch over to his battered leather sofa. “Are you sure you won’t have anything? I’m sorry I can’t offer you better fare.”

Arch smiled and sipped from his glass. “It’s fine. You took me to your club and offered me mountain lamb and it was delicious, but I like this kind of meal best.”

Cook grinned back. “When this is over, I’m going to take you to the best restaurants in York City, and you’ll find a better meal than meat and potatoes from Nineteen’s dining hall, I can assure you.”

“When what’s over?” Arch asked innocently. “Am I in for a long wait?”

Cook started in on his steak. “The business with King Edward. He’s coming tomorrow, the Masters are all a-fuss over it.”

Arch was silent. Cook continued, “Which is why I haven’t stopped by – we’ve been busy with arrangements.”

Between forkfuls, Cook gave an abbreviated account of his Bowery exploits, and his efforts on behalf of the Smithsons and the unlicensed songcasters. “So we’ve finally managed to get them released, and all’s well,” Cook concluded.

Arch finally spoke up. “I’m glad the Guild didn’t harm anyone,” he said. “I was worried we’d played a part in that, you know.”

“You and me both,” Cook said sourly, pushing his plate away and taking a long draught of wine.

Arch continued to look down; Cook could see the tension rolling off the lad’s skin.

“I need to tell you something,” Arch said quietly. “I tried that day, but you rushed off, and I haven’t had the chance since.”

Archuleta was clenching and unclenching his left hand unconsciously; Cook took Arch’s fingers to still them. Arch glanced nervously at Cook when he did so.

“I went to the Bowery the same night as you did, to help like you did,” Arch said softly, and Cook’s heart twisted in his chest.

“You went _to the Bowery_? By yourself? But you hardly know the City!” Cook realized he was clutching Arch’s hand tightly, and made an effort to stop shouting. “You could have fallen prey to God knows what!”

A smile pulled at the side of Archuleta’s mouth. “But of course I know the City, Cook. You showed it to me. And you did well, because I managed to find my way, and saw the Silo burning. And I saw your friend, Mr. Maroulis.”

“You did?” Cook tried to focus. “Really? I’ve been looking for him since that Saturday, to warn him: the Guild’s on the look-out for him, he needs to lie low.”

“Well, he was lying pretty low when I saw him,” Arch said. “Mr. Maroulis is an Anachronist. There is a group of them, including Mr. Daughtry from the opera, gone to ground. They think another group, which calls themselves Anarchists, is going to assassinate the King when he comes here. Maroulis said the Chronomicon is the key to protecting the King.”

“Wait, what? You saw these men, these Anachronists, on Saturday? Did they harm you?” Cook knew he was shouting again; at this point he didn’t really care. Archuleta had willingly met with men who’d tried to hurt Cook and the others in Free Man’s Alley that first night. It had been _Maroulis_ who had sent Cook out to meet the Anarchists – if Maroulis was really an Anachronist, had he been using Cook as bait to try to trap Lambert and Hickson and the other Anarchists? And perhaps they had also been using Archuleta -- 

“I wasn’t harmed!” Arch protested. “They were trying to get away from the Guild; I helped them!” He pulled his hand away from Cook’s. “They said… they said, the King isn’t human, but descended from Old Ones, which is why the others, the Anarchists, are trying to kill him.”

Cook remembered Lambert’s blue stare, remembered that beautiful voice saying, “ _Kill the breed of Kings, or the Old Ones will walk again_.” He heard his own voice now saying to Arch, unevenly, “The Anachronists told you Edward isn’t human? And, and you believed them?”

Arch finally met Cook’s gaze. His eyes were bright with some emotion Cook couldn’t read. “Yes,” he said. “I believed them. We cast the spell again, and it showed me the world will end without the Old Ones - men will build machines and an explosive device. The Anachronists want to stop them. They want Edward to choose to bring the Old Ones back.”

Cook put his hands on Arch’s shoulders. Arch’s breath was coming fast, and Cook found that his was as well. “ _They want to bring the Old Ones back_?” he echoed Archuleta. “Listen to yourself, Arch! Can you really believe that’s a good thing?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Arch. His hands made fists in the front of Cook’s shirt. “Yes, I can, when the alternative’s death. Cook, you didn’t see – I saw everything dying. My parents, my brother and sisters; I saw _you_ dying - I knew I had to do something to stop it from happening -”

Arch’s eyes were so close that Cook could see the sparks in their depths; he could see the determined set of Arch’s jaw, but didn’t recognize the emotions underneath until Arch moved in, all in a rush, and kissed him fiercely on the mouth.

And for a shining moment, with Archuleta in his arms, everything that was confusing to Cook became as clear as day.

Archuleta kissed him like Cook was everything he ever desired; he made frantic noises, holding tightly to Cook, shivering - from his fear for Cook, perhaps, or from the days and weeks of their careful dance around each other to finally reach this place.

They were both breathing heavily when they broke apart. There was brightness in Arch’s eyes. “I had to do something,” he repeated, thickly.

“Ah, God -” Cook cupped Arch’s face in his hands, rubbed the wetness away with his thumbs. His heart was pounding. “You could do that again; you could do it forever. Arch…”

He pulled Archuleta in and kissed him again, feeling his blood rise to every part of him. He knew he should take matters slowly, chivalrously; for all he knew this was the first time Archuleta had kissed anyone. But it seemed like Cook had wanted this for so long, and Arch’s inexperienced ardor was undoing all his restraint. He found he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting his tongue more and more deeply into Archuleta’s mouth, couldn’t withhold from pressing himself, hard and insistent, against Arch’s eager body.

When the pounding at his door came and didn’t stop, Cook was furious, but also relieved - it gave him the chance to pull away from Arch and try to recover whatever vestiges of control he had left.

“God damn it, _not now!”_

“Mr. Cook, there’s someone to see you!”

“Send him away!” Cook called. He tightened his hands at the back of Arch’s sweat-damp hair, readying himself to set a more gallant pace with the lad.

“Says it’s urgent! It’s about tomorrow!”

Cook hesitated. He looked down at Archuleta. Arch’s eyes were huge and wet. Somehow he’d managed to undo the first few buttons of Arch’s shirt; Archuleta’s throat was bare under the low lights and flushed with arousal. It was damnably difficult to draw himself away from the warmth of his sofa, from Archuleta’s mouth.

“I have to go,” Cook said. It transpired that his own attire was in disarray; he started to straighten and refasten his clothing, watching Archuleta do likewise.

When he was done, he reached down, touched Arch’s cheek; he found he didn’t want to be parted from Archuleta, not just yet. “Come with me,” he said softly.

Archuleta paused in mid-button. His eyes met Cook’s – uncertain again, undecided. “I’d better not,” he replied at last. “You should go, Cook.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can. Please stay,” and Cook leaned in for a last kiss. Sweet and sure, everything Cook had ever desired.

This time, when the knocking resumed, he could barely pull himself away. He couldn’t catch his breath; he discovered he didn't want to be parted from Archuleta, ever.

He pressed his forehead against Arch’s brow. “When this is over, assuming we survive this, I am going to take you wherever you want. Away from this, if you’ll come with me. Anywhere.”

Archuleta ran his fingers over Cook’s lower lip. A beat, then he nodded.

Cook took hold of himself reluctantly, pulled himself from Arch’s arms and flung himself out of the room.

It was Richardson at his door, dressed in street clothes. Cook blinked at the sight. “You? What is it, who’s here?”

“You’d best see for yourself,” Richardson said quietly. He held Cook’s coat out to him.

 

*

 

Cook wasn’t entirely surprised to find the Anarchist, Lambert, waiting for him in the Nineteen coach house, embroidered coat matching the finery of Lambert’s eyes. Despite himself, despite his awareness of the illusion of stage makeup and stage presence, Cook was not insensible to the showman’s allure.

“I understand your lads are gunning to kill a King tomorrow,” he said to Lambert without preamble.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” said Lambert quietly. It seemed he was incapable of surprise.

Cook took a step towards him. “If any part of it’s accurate, you know my lads and I will need to stop you.”

Lambert lifted his chin; his eyes shone with secrets. “What if the King’s not human? What then? Would you spill my blood, knowing he’d summon the Old Ones back to our shores - Old Ones who would eat your flesh off your bones, who’ll suck your soul from your body as if it were an orange?”

Cook shuddered in spite of himself. The visions of a two-headed god, of tentacles uncoiling in brimy depths - "You'll not take action against an innocent on my watch," he said with a firmness he didn't feel. "And if it's true, we'll stop him. There's no need for you to kill anyone."

"There's not just him," Lambert said warningly. "There are Anachronists, also, human agents who will assist the King. They've reached inside Nineteen, you might be already breached."

Cook had to thrust away the memory of Archuleta's hot eyes, of hearing him say, _I had to do something_. The taste of Arch’s mouth - _no_. "I won't countenance killing anyone!" he said loudly, taking another step forward until he was toe to toe with Lambert. "I don't believe you came here to tell me this! I could have you locked away -"

Lambert shrugged. "I could try to out-sing you, David, but it won't come to that. You're an honorable man and so is your crew. You’ll leave me free in case I’m right. And I know you'll do the right thing, also, when the time comes. I know you'll choose to help us."

Lambert held Cook's gaze for a moment and then took his leave, coat swirling in the cold night as if he had a theme song all his own.

Damn him, he was right. Cook let him walk away.

When he was gone, Cook turned to Richardson, who had been standing as still as a blond statue at the edge of the coach house. "You brought him in here? And I thought you’d want to repay the generosity we showed you," Cook said coldly.

"You know I'm grateful, and I haven't sought to betray you or House Nineteen," Richardson protested; he looked miserable. "Captain Lambert knows what he's talking about, Cook. His father was an Anarchist, and his father before him - the songs and knowledge have been passed through generations. I've seen things, horrible things the Old Ones have done -"

"And I've seen a dead President, and men doing their best to kill themselves," said Cook bitterly. "You Anarchists think you're saving the world, but I doubt you really know what you're doing."

"We know the significance of tomorrow," Richardson said, and this brought Cook up short. "Tomorrow it’s Samhain: the stars align, the moon rises, and when the winds blow through the four corners of the dome, when a song is played on pipes and keys, the barrier between worlds can be brought down."

It felt as if the winds were blowing through Cook's heart. "We don't have the other half of the Chronomicon," he said.

"The Captain says the Anachronists have it," said Richardson. "There's a man from Germany called von Ahlen. But it seems they were very keen to get your half, with the summoning song."

Cook glared at Richardson. "And you're not?"

"No! I swear. We want to make sure the portal's _not_ opened. If we have to kill the King to make sure of it..."

Cook knew he should drag Richardson back to the Guild's jailors, but he didn't have it in him. "I don't want to hear that kind of treason," he said tiredly. "You'd better leave, Richardson - turn in your uniform, we'll see what we can do about the bond. If Giraud’s involved with you Anarchists, I want him gone as well." He'd square things with Cowell later.

Richardson hesitated. "I'll always be grateful to you, Cook, and to Mr. Cowell. But you'll see we're right," he muttered, and then he too turned on his heel and vanished into the night.

 

*

 

When Cook returned to his rooms, he found they were empty. So was Arch's narrow bed in the journeymen's quarters.

 _Please wait_ – evidently, Arch had figured he couldn’t.

It was foolishness beyond belief, but Cook spent the night searching the streets of York, peering into the gas-lit shadows for any sign of Archuleta. His brain was a pounding, frantic mess; he felt as if something with too many joints and limbs was consuming him from within, something else on his heels that he was only just managing to outpace. _Damn it, where are you?_

At dawn, he returned to House, collapsed on cold sheets and let the darkness drag him under.

 

*

 

He woke to bright daylight and realization. Holy God, love had made him take all leave of his senses.

He barged his way into Cowell's music rooms, usually under lock and key when its Master was away from the House as he was that day, playing escort to the visiting King of England.

The music room doors were open, and the Chronomicon was gone.

 

*

_On the streets of Fifth Avenue, the previous night._

There was a cold wind blowing through Arch as he walked through the night, clutching his tattered satchel. Its purloined cargo was a weight on his conscience as well as his shoulder.

He remembered the incredulous sound of Cook’s voice: _“Can you really believe that’s a good thing?”_ Remembered how it felt to finally take action, reaching out to kiss Cook like he had wanted for so long, feeling the hungry pressure of Cook’s body against his own.

He shivered with adrenaline now, having been called to take _this_ action, but it didn’t feel remotely the same.

He’d have given anything to be back in Cook’s rooms, in the shelter of Cook’s arms. Cook had said, _“When this is over, assuming we survive… I am going to take you away from this, if you’ll come,”_ and Arch had thought his heart might burst with hope and desire.

It was entirely self-indulgent to try to disclaim responsibility, though: the fate of the world rested with him – his life, Cook’s life, the lives of those he loved – under the circumstances, it was cowardly to want to rely on someone else, even as sure and certain a strength as Cook. He needed to be strong enough to take this step by himself.

Which was why he was here, at the Anachronists’ summons: committing to helping them, making a stand.

A horse cart pulled up out of the curling fog. A bald head gleamed under gaslight; another blond one alongside.

“You’re here!” said Lewison. His handsome face was still bruised and bandaged, but otherwise he looked entirely whole. “Captain von Ahlen’s ship is arriving at midday, and everything is falling into place at last.”

“Thank you for coming, David.” Daughtry’s eyes were as deep as a winter lake. “Shall we ride?”

Archuleta nodded, and swung decisively up into the cart.

*

_In the Royal Presence, Saturday, 31 October 1901_

Edward VII of England, the most powerful man in the Western world, was addressing him, and Cook simply couldn’t focus. In fact, after the goings-on of the past two weeks, Cook wasn’t even sure Edward was a man at all.

Although he looked human enough in the low light of the House Nineteen drawing room: an older, bearded gentleman of immense girth with a pronounced brow and piercing eyes. Gold cuff-links, peacock-colored cravat, a huge ruby-encrusted stick-pin that was the exact same hue as the blood that had covered the floors in Cook’s dreams…

…Cook belatedly realized he’d been asked a question, and tore his gaze away from the Crown jewelry to meet the Crown’s steady gaze.

“I apologize, your Majesty. I’m afraid I didn't catch that,” he muttered.

Cook saw, at the King’s side, Cowell’s face twitch in a small wince of disapproval. He knew he must look rather less than presentable, sleep-deprived and almost out of his mind with worry. _Arch, where are you._

The King smiled. It was a polite, amused, entirely human smile.

“We were just commenting about this year’s World’s Fair. We are told that the Exposition has used the steam turbine power generated from your Niagara River, which we last visited in 1860. Do you think that the same river would be able to generate sufficient electrical power to power the city, also?”

Cook frowned at the question. “Sire, I am not familiar with the new electrical technology. Though I hear steel manufacturers in Buffalo have been considering the switch from steam to electrical power for a while now.”

“Well, President Roosevelt’s White House is a marvel of the new electrical lighting, and we are fascinated by the Bell’s telephonic device.” The King looked down at his walking stick and then up again. “Electricity is the wave of the future for us all, even for songcasters. Would you agree, Mr. Cook?”

Cook was interested despite himself. “Perhaps, your Majesty. I’ll own, I am curious as to the extent to which electricity can be used to amplify the sound of guitars and the human voice, and how this may affect songcasting as a whole.”

The King nodded. “Perhaps electricity will cause a renaissance of thaumaturgy, or songcasting will be made obsolete.”

His Majesty turned to address remarks about engineering to Master Jackson, leaving Cook to consider these last words. In the long run, how truly viable was the current songcasting technology, based as it was on the rigid stability laws of voice, strings and beat?

Of course, Neal would have been able to engage the King far more knowledgeably on such technological issues, but Tiemann and the other Anthemic fieldcasters had already departed for Buffalo to ready the Temple of Music for the clandestine Royal visit.

The away team had taken with them a member of the King’s personal field guard, a bald, bearded English beat caster named William Champion. The King's other fieldcasters - frontman and rhythm guitar player Christian Martin, stringcaster John Buckland and bass-caster Guy Berryman – stood flanking the King's person.

Like most of the songcasters in the Western World, Cook was familiar with the mighty Cold Play, and they looked as impressive in the flesh, wearing short cloaks in the royal colors of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, insignia of rank on their collars and weapons held at the ready.

Cold Play continued on a state of alert during the short tour of House Nineteen’s treasures, staring at doorways and potential threats while the King conversed with Cowell and Fuller. Even when the King settled down to an early supper in Fuller's private dining rooms, the three did not all stand down and took turns to eat instead.

When it was Christian Martin's turn to come off duty, he put his guitar back in its case and seated himself by Cook. Conversationally, he said, "Mr. Cook, I must say that the Anthemic's airborne song is a particularly well crafted one."

"'Heroes'? That's very kind, Captain Martin."

“Your House is known for its rigorous training; I approve. I hear some of your journeymen are missing, though,” Martin said, and Cook nearly choked on his wine.

“Indeed.” Cook managed to keep his voice level. Cowell and Fuller had been similarly silent when Cook told them that Richardson and Giraud hadn't relinquished their Anarchist tendencies, and that Archuleta had likely taken the Chronomicon to the Anachronists.

"There isn't anything to be done until after the King's visit," Fuller had said resignedly. Then he'd peered at Cook's stricken countenance. "Mr. Cook, I'm not sure exactly what's between you and the boy, nor do I wish to, but under the circumstances, perhaps you'd like to consider standing down."

"I'm fine," Cook had said. He wasn't leaving his team to run this visit by itself. And if he stayed, he might be able to stop whatever the Anarchists or Anachronists had in mind, might be able to save Archuleta, or stop him. Cook didn't want to think about what it meant to have to stop Arch.

Martin frowned, now. He put down his fork. “We were told there might be rogue songcasters about, but that it was unlikely to be an issue. Do you think that's so, Mr. Cook? If the King’s safety is at risk, I will need to know.”

How much did Martin know? If the King wasn't human, was the team that defended him also tainted? Cook cast about for a counter attack.

"I gather His Majesty specifically requested there be only minimal security, for a visit to a place where President McKinley was assassinated a month ago. If there's a security issue, it's of his own making."

Martin held up a hand. "You may be right, sir, and I wasn't trying to suggest you weren't concerned about the King's safety. You'll forgive us for being more afraid for our liege than he is himself."

Cook pressed the point. “Tell me this, sir. Why does His Majesty desire to find himself in the Temple of Music on a clear evening in Samhain?"

One corner of Martin's expressive mouth turned up. _Damn it, of course he knew._ "Mr. Cook, while His Majesty does occasionally confide in his servants, this is not something he specifically chose to share with me. I'm sure he's keen to see the Exposition, that's all, without folks present and before it's disassembled."

Cook was rather sure that wasn't all, but Martin said nothing further on the subject.

They were both distracted by sudden movement in the room - Nineteen's head butler opened the door to admit a crewman in White House staff uniform, aviator's goggles pushed up into his hair. He was joined by a stooped woman, swathed in silk scarves and in a dark coat.

Martin and Cook got up quickly, the Englishman reaching for his weapon. Cook didn't recognize the woman at first, but as Fuller bowed to her and Edward reached for her hand, Cook realized this bent, elderly figure was Ida McKinley, the last President's widow.

"Your Majesty," the former First Lady said querulously as the King of England bent over her fingers. "This will have been a perilous journey for you."

"No more than it had been for you, Lady," said Edward. As if no one else were in the room, he continued, "I am deeply sorry for your loss. You cannot know... My own Alexandra, this is her abiding fear: that what happened to your William will happen to me."

"It should have been me," Ida murmured. "Men are so cruel, Edward, as cruel as our fathers were to them. You know you should not have come here."

"I had to see it for myself: the Temple, which your Americans managed to recreate." The King shrugged. "And I'm in trusted hands. Will you come with me, to see if you can see also?"

Mrs McKinley shook her head. "I'm not as brave as you, Sire. You should depart. The President's Airship Two is rigging up to take you to Buffalo, and I have an errand to run in Manhattan."

Edward nodded, and pressed her hand tenderly. "Stay well, then, my dear, until we meet again." She nodded and left the room, leaning on her escort's arm.

His Majesty elbowed himself to his feet, the serving boys rushing to hold his chair for him. Once upright, he turned to Fuller: "We stand at ready, sir."

"Then by all means, Sire, let us depart," said Fuller.

Cook looked meaningfully at Martin, who didn't meet his gaze.

 

*

 

Ordinarily, Cook would have found it an unalloyed pleasure to speed through the early evening sky in the White House's state-of-the-art airship.

The setting sun briefly turned the white silk balloon of the White House's second airship to bronze and gold. The narrow-prowed gondola was fashioned in a new aerodynamic design which could lift off from the Nineteen courtyard and tear through the air at unprecedented speed.

Cook gripped the brass railing, the wind racing through his hair. The roar of the dirigible's engine wasn't loud enough to drown out his roiling thoughts.

The ship was aimed like an arrow across the Hudson Valley, toward the World's Fair Exposition in Buffalo. Cook knew they were heading towards the resolution of the mystery of these past weeks, of McKinley's assassination, the strange half-book and dueling cults and the tableau of Edward VII and Ida McKinley standing with joined hands in House Nineteen. Towards what waited for them, now, in the Temple of Music.

He knew they were heading towards the Anarchist whom Richardson called Captain Lambert, and on the other side, Anachronists Constantine Maroulis and Christophe Daughtry.

_I know you'll do the right thing, also, when the time's right. I know you'll choose to help us._

And, God willing, they were also headed towards David Archuleta: young and courageous and driven half mad by dreams of blood and war, desperate to do the right thing. _I had to do something._ Cook hoped he'd be in time, either to help Arch or stop him, he wasn’t sure which.

_You didn't wait, David. But I'm coming anyway._

Night fell, and an ancient moon rose above them, golden with secrets. Below them were wavering pinpoints of light as they passed over cities and towns on the Southern Tier. Cook had never seen a dirigible with night lights, but the White House airship had them aplenty: powered running lights that winked on and off, giving the brass trimmings and white balloon of the ship an air of unreality.

Behind him, Cowell kept up a running commentary; the King’s good-humored responses were snatched away by the sound of the engines. Cold Play were silent, waiting for the final act to commence.

 

*

 

_The World’s Fair, Buffalo._

Buffalo appeared on the horizon a good half hour before they actually docked, the brightness of its street lighting powered by Niagara steam turbines – a true city of lights at the forefront of this century. Cook would have marveled at the sight if he hadn't been on edge of his nerves already.

The Airship Two aviator landed on a brightly-lit field platform. The aviators busied themselves with the rigging, communicating with the ground crew in quiet tones that were at odds with the usual casual hollering ways of dirigible operators everywhere else.

A uniformed officer approached the airship and ripped off a stiff salute.

“Sire, on behalf of the City Mayor and the President of the United American States, welcome to Buffalo. It’s an honor to have you here.”

“We thank you, Major,” the King said, a little breathlessly. He managed to climb with assistance from the gondola and descended the short flight of stairs to the ground.

Beyond the field, the brilliance of the Pan-American Exposition rose above them, and the curved dome of the Temple of Music.

“Everything has been readied for your Majesty’s visit as you’d asked,” the major continued. “A small escort has been prepared to take you to the Temple of Music. If you please –”

His Majesty was ushered into a small steam-motored car with the White House crest on its side. Cook got into the second car with Cowell and Beresford, the King’s footman, and the uniformed driver put her into gear.

The armed forces of the United American States had closed the World’s Fair to the public this evening. As they drove past, Cook saw tents had been pitched around the gates by ejected masses waiting for the Fair’s re-opening on the morrow.

The streets of the Exposition, which Cook had last seen teeming with vendors and exhibitors and holidaymakers, were quiet. The wheels of the cars made gouges in the pedestrian tracks as they pulled up outside the colorful octagonal walls of the Temple of Music.

Outside the Temple was another small receiving party: two men in uniform, beatcaster William Champion, and the four other members of the Anthemic. Tiemann found Cook’s gaze and nodded imperceptibly: all was as well as could be expected.

“Everything’s secure, Sire,” Champion said, as Martin assisted the King from the car.

Cook reached out to his people; Skib grasped his hand in welcome, and Peek said, excitedly, “Cook, there was a contingent of soldiers that swept the Temple, they had the new long-nosed rifles!”

“Lad wanted to hold one and nearly got his arm shot off,” Anderson said, grinning.

Cook rolled his eyes. “You need both arms to drum, Kyle. All right, let’s go in and have this done with, then.”

The major and other uniformed men had taken up positions at either side of the Temple’s Northern entrance, under the “MVSIC” emblem. Cook and the Anthemic passed under the cherubs in the archway, instruments in hand.

The great chamber was deserted. The gas lamps bracketing the painted walls were clearly insufficient to illuminate the massive octagonal-shaped space. The moonlight streamed in through the windows and portals at each of the cardinal points of the hall, and left swathes of shadow across the marble floor.

The King had stopped in the north-eastern corner of the chamber, before the largest pipe organ in all the United American States.

“This is a marvel,” he said. Although he spoke quietly, his voice echoed around the hall, amplified by the acoustics of the dome and the octagonal walls.

The King stepped forward to inspect the pipe organ, whose brass pipes stretched above his head. Then he stared at the huge red-gold panel beside the organ, a shiny, mirror-like surface which Cook recalled depicted a mass of angels playing instruments, although it was now very difficult to see clearly in the dark of night.

The King beckoned his footman, Beresfold, and said, “See you this, now.”

Beresfold peered closely as well, and said, “Do we have light, Captain Martin?”

The Cold Play bandcasters had stationed themselves at each of the cardinal points of the hall, but at Beresfold’s words they all approached the pipe organ, swinging their weapons to the fore.

Champion’s bare hands found the beat against the tight skins of the battle drum he’d slung around his body, Berryman’s bass joined the rhythm line, and Buckland’s strings filled the hall with effortless thaumaturgy.

Martin’s light, cadenced voice sang, softly:

_“Light and dark Bright spark/Light and dark and then light/Light, light, light, light…”_

The end of Martin’s guitar burst into a concentrated ball of light, and he stepped close to the King’s side, holding it high for his monarch to see.

As one, Cowell and the Anthemic pressed close to see as well.

And see they did - a great figure, wide wings spreading to the heavens, rising above a mass of supplicating hands and bodies. For the first time, Cook realized that the limbs he thought were those of many angels actually belonged to the same figure: jointless, coiling, muscular limbs that held instruments of music and that reached out to clasp and to caress.

Edward let loose a great sigh, and incredibly, the figure in the panel almost seemed to move in welcome.

_Bring to the Temple the true King._

Cook felt the pressure from Champion’s drum-casting build in his body. The dome a hundred feet overhead felt as if it were weighing down on them. The blue clouds and personages painted on its curving surface stared down at Cook – it was as if the sky itself was falling…

…and, like a slice of cold steel, another rhythm inserted itself into the chamber.

Out of the shadows, figures emerged, one after another, through the southern entryway where the guards had been. Beat, bass, guitar strings – and a familiar, unearthly-beautiful voice.

Richardson, Giraud. Two other men: one with a drum platform, a smaller, platinum blond one with a guitar. Tay Hickson, white-haired and menacing, a guitar slung around his shredding robes, trailing little rats that skittered on the marble floor.

And tall Lambert, leading the charge in basic black.

The Anarchists’ thaumaturgy lanced through Cook like a hail of Spanish War bullets.

Cold Play had been distracted - Martin barely had time to twist around and fling up a song shield around the four of them and the King, and the effort of it drove him to his knees. The footman, Beresfold, collapsed and lay still.

Dimly, Cook heard Cowell shouting, “Cook! Damn it, man, get to your feet; ward the King!”

 _Damn it, man, did I not tell you this would happen?_ thought Cook, muzzily. It was an effort to fight past the pain. Lambert was laying down a powerful attacking spell: his sinuous voice mingled with strings and beat, and flung power that shook the domed roof.

_“The future I cannot forget this aching heart ain't broken yet/I know this flame isn't dying - nothing can stop me from trying/It’s time, it’s time…”_

The Anarchists’ power didn’t directly target Cook, though, and after a moment of disorientation, the Anthemic's front man pulled himself to his feet.

Cook glanced to his left: Tiemann had managed to keep his footing and was holding Skib upright. At Cook's glance, his tall Second's hands moved to the strings of his guitar.

To his right, Anderson was too shaken to move, but Peek had managed to keep hold of his battle drum, insinuating himself into the rhythm, unobtrusively building a beat which Cook and Tiemann could use.

Cook's hands still felt weak, but he took hold of his fighting A chord and flung thaumaturgy at the Anarchists' unguarded flank.

_“Now that you're wrong, you don't know how to defend/You are your own end”_

Giraud stumbled and fell to the ground; the Anarchist drum-caster howled. Tay Hickson snarled, taking up a second song line ( _“It’s time, time, time”_ ) and continuing to hurl power at the protection set up by Cold Play, while Lambert flung up a ward against the Anarchists’ flank and turned his attention to Cook.

Cook reached for his own shielding song, but Lambert didn't attack. Instead he shouted, "Cook, I'm not your enemy!"

Lambert shouldn't be wasting voice on idle talk; he should be singing strength into the flimsy shield. Cook could sing it down in one bar.

Instead, he chose to speak as well. "I told you not to try this!"

Lambert's eyes were impossibly blue in the shadows. "And I told you he was no innocent! Cook, look at the King!"

It was a trap. A trap - but Cook couldn't help it, he looked over to where the King and his guards were huddled -

\- and, hellfire and damnation: he saw the massive bulk of something that still looked like Edward, but it had more arms than any ordinary human should. Four muscled, tentacular limbs; things holding it upright, that rippled on the ground -

\- " _Oh God_ ," said Peek in a thin voice, and the beat fell away and Peek bent over and threw up.

So the Anarchists were _right_. Tiemann's face had gone bone-pale; beyond him, Skib grasped his shoulder. Cook saw Anderson pull himself together and shoulder his bass guitar.

Anderson's bass line caught hold of the rhythm, and Cook shouldered his resolve and opened his throat.

This time, Cook aimed the Anthemic's power straight at the Cold Play song shield.

“ _Find a new way to feel right between this time a fistfight/I can read the circles 'round your eyes_ ”

Martin's shielding song shuddered, faltered. Cold Play might be the mightiest songcasting band in all England, but even they would have difficulty fighting on two fronts.

The Englishman met Cook's gaze with an exhausted glare that held nothing of surprise. _Bastard knew I suspected him,_ Cook thought. Cook wondered if Cowell might protest, as well, but Cook had no attention to spare for him - it was hard enough to keep singing, keep pounding an attack at the band that shielded a monster.

“ _This is life, this is no rhyme/Find a beat, find the right time/Over my head to straight ahead…_ ”

Buckland collapsed; Berryman slid to his knees, the thaumaturgic bonds slowly fraying. The Anarchists readied themselves for the killing push --

\-- and a fourth song reached into the chamber, raw and raucous.

This was the encounter Cook was expecting, was dreading: the Anachronists.

From the northern door came Constantine Maroulis, who had been missing from the Silo for days. He was followed by a taller, bearded man with long coarse hair. A shorter man, blond and unshaven, who used his voice to create a hissing, snaking tempo, and a dark-haired man on a levitating drum platform.

Together, they slid into the Cold Play shielding song, knit it together with strings and beat and Maroulis’ gravelly voice:

“ _Be my mirror, my sword and shield, my missionary in a foreign field…_ ”

Christophe Daughtry walked in from the east entrance, his bald head and fair skin shining in the darkness. In one hand, he held a guitar that looked like it was made of metal. In the other, he held the battered copy of a songbook.

At Daughtry’s side was David Archuleta.

Arch looked wild-eyed, an animal caught in searchlights. His arms clasped the familiar leather-bound shape of the Chronomicon.

Daughtry and Archuleta moved to the pipe organ, behind Cold Play and the King. Cook saw Arch open both books – both halves of the same whole - and slide onto the seat, and the first tentative notes of an entirely new song began to play.

Cook stopped singing; he couldn’t help it. It was clear what Arch was going to do: he was about to cast the spell that sundered worlds. “Arch!” he shouted. “For the love of God, don’t do it!"

Arch looked frantically for an instant over the Cold Play shield, at Cook and the Anthemic. Then Daughtry whispered something in his ear, and he turned resolutely back to the keys.

“Save your breath, Cook!” Maroulis shouted, as the Anachronists and Cold Play tore into the strings portion of the shielding song, buoyed now by the notes of the Chronomicon’s spell. “It’s not too late to join us!"

“Arch doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Cook panted. “Neither do you! Damn it, Maroulis, there must be some other way!”

“No, there isn't,” Maroulis said, stoutly, swinging back into the verse.

“It’s no use,” Lambert said to Cook. “You need to refocus your energies. We need to hit the pipe organ before the spell breaks the barriers. Aim there.”

“No! I’m not risking Arch!”

“You risk the entire world,” Lambert said.

Cook roared, "I said I won't do it, damn it! Arch, please!"

Arch's voice seemed to waver as he lifted it:

" _To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall._ "

The world shivered, and a lithe figure entered through the western door.

A uniformed man, not tall, wearing a captain’s stripes, aviator’s goggles atop his peaked cap. He held a silver pistol cocked in one hand.

"Captain von Ahlen!"

Daughtry leaped to his feet, coming around the organ to the front of the song shield, one first raised in triumph. "The Silver Key, at last!"

Maroulis nodded. “Christophe, over there, that’s the Captain's target – Lambert of the Anarchists.”

The newcomer turned to the huddle of Anarchists and the Anthemic. He stood close enough that Cook could see the blue flash of his eyes.

Cook readied himself to redirect his song energies at the new Anachronist Captain, who had a guitar at his back but otherwise clothed himself with no thaumaturgy -

\- and Captain von Ahlen raised his weapon and fired a shot. Through the song shield.

At the King.

With almost preternatural speed, Daughtry flung himself in front of Edward, and the Captain’s shot took him high in the chest.

The blond man who had been grounding the beat with his voice broke off and ran over to Daughtry’s side. Maroulis cursed loudly, and realigned himself in front of the King, beside Martin.

“Traitor,” Maroulis’ long-haired companion muttered. “Constantine, quickly -”

Not quickly enough. Captain von Ahlen, Anarchist double agent, slid calmly behind the Anarchists’ shields beside Cook and Lambert. He raised a hand to his cap in greeting.

Lambert said, " _Guten tag, Herr Kaptain._ What kept you?"

"My apologies. I had some difficulties getting past the soldiers at the gate, although I see you knocked over the ones on the south entrance for me."

“Nothing but the best for my Kristopher,” Lambert said, slyly, and Cook saw a grin tug at von Ahlen’s mouth.

“It’s for this I risk my life? All right, then.” The Captain raised his arm and took aim.

Lambert said, “It’s not for me, it’s for Germany, and America, and the whole world, yours and mine,” and Cook hollered, “ _Aim low, damn it!”_ and Kristopher von Ahlen fired.

And they watched Constantine Maroulis deliberately club Chris Martin to the ground, and get out of the way.

Von Ahlen’s shot struck the unprotected King in the shoulder.

The King tottered. Green gouts of blood burst from his body. His many limbs clawed at the air in front of him, pulling his sodden jacket and clothing away from his chest. He made an inhuman noise that sounded as if it came from more than one throat.

His Majesty’s face - still human, still ordinary – turned to look in horror at Maroulis, who was smiling.

“Oh no,” von Ahlen said, very quietly.

Maroulis called to him: "You thought to betray us, Captain? You serve us anyway! The King’s blood was always the key; yours was the only weapon that would pierce shields to do so. We failed with McKinley, but this time, we’ll do everything right.”

His evocative voice took up the song: _"To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall."_

Cook struggled to keep up. The King had been _betrayed_ by the Anachronists. Maroulis had always intended to use von Ahlen’s pistol, the Silver Key, to spill the King’s blood and to open the portal. Daughtry hadn’t known, had tried to protect the King. Surely Arch would now understand he’d been lied to, surely now he’d stop casting the spell – damn it, Cook needed to _reach_ him –

\- The Temple shook under their feet. Daughtry was motionless, Lewison bent over him. Three of the four Cold Play bandcasters were out of action, but Maroulis’ long-haired stringcaster and bass-caster and Will Champion were holding firm.

And Archuleta was still playing, and singing, and casting the Chronomicon’s final spell – the one which was holding up the song shield, and readying to breach the link between worlds.

“I have one last bullet,” von Ahlen said softly.

Lambert nodded. They all staggered as the walls swayed and a long crack ran through the marble floor.

Cook said tightly, “You’d better save it for me, then.”

“Cook, don’t be foolish,” Lambert began, as Cook ducked out from behind the Anarchists’ shields and started across the chamber to where the boy at the pipe organ was about to break down the barriers between worlds.

Cook did rather hope von Ahlen wouldn’t take his words to heart and shoot him in the back. He felt the Anthemic’s surge of power behind him and broke into a run, criss-crossing the room and pushing out of the eastern door, guitar gripped in his hands.

Ducking out into the moonlight, Cook raced around the octagonal walls to the northern door and weaved back into the hall. He emerged by the flank of the pipe organ and the edge of the Anarchists’ song shield – unbreachable to everything except that one silver bullet.

He looked across the shimmering barrier into Arch’s eyes.

Archuleta looked dazed, caught up in the spell. His hair was matted with sweat, his face pale in the moonlight. His fingers were a blur on the keys. His voice soared above the cacophony of the conflicting spells in a song that would put an end to everything.

Beyond the pipe organ, Maroulis was on his knees in the pool of the King's green blood. The spell was making the walls of the Temple shudder violently; any minute now they were going to come down.

Cook took hold of his nerves. He spoke evenly, as if his heart were not pounding in his chest in triple time. “Arch, please look at me.”

Archuleta looked up at him, finally. A small frown pulled at his brow, as if he were finally seeing Cook at last.

“I asked you to wait last night, but I suppose I shouldn’t have.” Cook swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have left you, either. If I’d stayed, I might have been able to convince you.”

Arch’s eyes flickered, and his hands faltered on the keys.

Cook reached out, placed his hand against the barrier. “I know you think men will put an end to everything. We might still do that, it’s true. But bringing the Old Ones back isn’t the answer. Maroulis lied to you: he planned to kill the King all along. And, just look at the King! Do you think we’d be better off enslaved to gods like that?”

Arch glanced over to where the King lay on the ground. The massive figure was majestic and terrible. Its human head turned to Arch and Cook, and, very distinctly, it spoke into their minds.

_I do not wiszh it either. I never did. The rule of the Old Ones is past. It izs the time of Men, now._

Arch froze, his sweat-damp face filled with disbelief and indecision. Cook finally understood, and tried to push past the disorder which the King’s mind-touch had left, to form words that reached out to Archuleta.

“Arch, you heard the King. The world belongs to us now. We can choose to make it beautiful.” Cook pressed his forehead against the barrier. His voice was shaking. “I think you’re beautiful. Please let me take you away from this.”

The echo of last night, the dampness in Arch’s eyes then and now. The way Arch’s mouth trembled – and, with a convulsive movement, he stopped singing, and his hands fell from the keys, and the Chronomicon’s final spell died away.

“I’m sorry,” Arch whispered, and then, “What have I done?”

“Saved the world,” murmured Cook. His heart was full; he gazed into Arch’s beloved face.

 

*

 

It felt as if he were waking from a dream, his usual dream of blood and death.

Of course, it wasn’t usual to be waking to more blood and more death, which was why Archuleta felt as if the world was in fact coming to an end. There was a concussive blast, the walls around him shuddering violently, and then the song shield disappeared and he was falling forwards into Cook’s arms.

Someone screaming behind him – Maroulis’ voice – Arch twisted around to see –

\- in time to witness the one Anarchist – Captain Lambert, Maroulis had called him - aim a blast of song at Maroulis and Bice that stopped them cold.

The shield was down – Arch saw Lambert take a tentative step towards the King, saw a man in uniform come to stand beside Lambert, a long silver pistol in hand –

Archuleta hauled himself out of Cook’s embrace. He jumped over the organ stool and flung himself in front of the King.

“Don’t shoot! The King means no harm! He doesn’t want to bring the barrier down!”

Lambert blinked, but lowered his hand, and in the next instant Cook was at Arch’s side as well.

“Lambert, it’s true. I heard him – your Majesty, did you speak to us?”

Lambert and Cook knelt by the King, who had levered himself up into a sitting position. Arch could hardly look at him. There were so many limbs, tentacles, moving and sliding in the moonlight...

“Yes,” said the King’s human voice, and _Yeszs_ , the King said in their minds. “We wished only to come here on this day because we had heard that the human architect, Mr. Esenwein, one of our faithful, had built a temple that conformed to the Chronomicon’s song. On this day, we hoped to see our Mother’s face one final time.”

“Her Majesty Victoria?” Master Cowell probably wouldn’t usually discuss importuning the deceased, but anything seemed possible today.

King Edward raised his head. “No,” he said, and then he gazed at the panel beside the pipe organ, and his mouth fell open like no human mouth should.

Arch and the others turned to look.

_They saw a great fastness, dreadful and majestic; eyes like rubies of great worth. Long, sinuous tentacles shifted restlessly in velvet shadows._

_A mellow voice declaimed, MY SSON. YOU WILL SSEE US, WHEN THE WORLD ENDS. BE PATIENT, AND WAIT. FOR ME._

The terrible scent of the brimy depths filled them all.

Arch realized the other songcasters were all on their knees, vomiting on the marble floor. He wondered why he was not similarly affected. He supposed after weeks of dreams and death he was now accustomed to the presence of old royalty.

Then he remembered watching Daughtry fall, and he turned around.

Lewison was silent now beside Daughtry’s body. Archuleta bent over as well, and saw that the spark of life still clung to the Anachronist who had been his friend.

“You lied to me,” Arch said, putting a hand to Daughtry’s cheek, and the dying man’s eyes opened.

“They lied to me too,” Daughtry said. “I’m sorry, David.”

“I forgive you,” said Archuleta, and he did. He knew Daughtry had been trying to do the right thing, like Arch himself – Daughtry hadn't been aware of Maroulis’ real intent; he'd tried to protect Edward, and had paid for it.

Daughtry’s cheek was cold to the touch. “That’s good,” he said. “The book…should be destroyed, I think.”

“I’ll do it,” Arch said, and watched the blue eyes slide closed.

He wasn’t aware that he was crying until Cook came over and held on to him as if he were the last thing in the world.

Around them, people were stirring. There were those who might not. Arch didn’t want to see if that included Maroulis, or Journeyman Giraud. He watched instead as Journeyman Richardson took Blake Lewison by the hand and helped him rise.

Cold Play assisted the King to his feet. Edward had fully recovered his human form - there was nothing to suggest his Old One blood save for the emerald on his white shirt, the bloodstains on the marble floor.

Lambert and von Ahlen stepped forward to meet him, unarmed. “Forgive us, Sire,” von Ahlen said quietly. “We were afraid you would be party to this. We didn’t know.”

“Now you do,” said Edward VII. “Those of the Old Blood have never sought to restore that world order. Anarchists and Anachronists both would be well advised of this. There need be no more bloodshed over the Old Ones from across the seas.”

The King looked at Cowell, Archuleta, and the Anthemic. “The time of the Old Ones is truly over, and the world now belongs to you. Guard it wisely.”

He nodded once, an ageing monarch who would endure more years of toil before he could finally rest.

Cook’s beard was rough against Arch’s forehead. Archuleta leaned back and felt his own blood pulse hotly in his veins.

In his mind’s eye, Archuleta saw the horrors of war, the people he loved dying. But this time, he also heard Cook’s promise: _We can make the world beautiful_.

It was up to him to start.

“We need to burn the Chronomicon,” he told Cook. “And I think we should take an axe to that damned pipe organ, also,” and a fierce grin stole over Cook’s face.

 

 


	6. Epilogue, Cast, Footnotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which war approaches._

**_York City, 1914._ **

_It starts with an assassination – an Austrian royal shot down in the street._

_Then: tanks of metal like rolling death through the streets, men dying in freezing trenches. Dead men with limbs blown off, lying on beachheads, trapped in metal tubes under the sea. People herded into camps like animals; children violated and then staked in the sun._

_And the world shaking itself apart in the shape of a hideous mushroom cloud..._

...Archuleta jerked awake. The sheets clung to his perspiring limbs, his hands shaking. He hadn’t had that dream in thirteen years, not since they’d destroyed both halves of the Chronomicon.

Beside him, Cook raised his head sleepily. “Arch? What is it?”

Arch didn’t answer. He swung out of their bed and pulled on a robe. It was very early, still dark outside, the electric streetlights brightening the gloom of Fifth Avenue. From their suite of rooms, Arch could see the stretch of Manhattan’s bright, changing skyline. In his mind’s eye he saw the proliferation of skyscrapers and great underground subway stations that had not been there thirteen years ago, when women and wives were not permitted to be songcasters, as now they were.

The world had changed indeed, and the time of songcasters both male and female might already be past – it was something that Cook himself might acknowledge now he was the new Grand Master of House Nineteen.

It wasn’t so early that the mail had yet to arrive, though. In the last hour or so, one of the footmen had pushed an envelope under their door.

Arch picked it up, gathering his strength for the conversation with Cook that was to come. The envelope contained a telegram hot off the secure House line.

_Archduke of Austria assassinated stop not us this time stop we need your help again stop Kristopher_

Captain von Ahlen: whom they hadn’t heard from in years, ever since that night, thirteen years ago, when a King and a scion of Old Ones had told them that the world belonged to them at last. _Guard it wisely_ , Edward had said, and nine years later he’d died, and Archuleta was afraid that in the intervening time, they hadn’t managed to guard what they’d been given very wisely at all.

And because of that, because of their failures, it seemed war was coming.

“Arch,” Cook said again, patiently, and Archuleta finally looked into the ageless eyes he loved.

“It’s beginning,” Arch said softly.

_[fin]_

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:**

**Cast of Characters**

**THE GUILD OF SONGCASTERS**  
(licensed songcasters)  
  
\- _House Sony-Bertelsmann_ (field band Direct Current)  
Lord Stringenfeld Holtz, Grand Master and President of the Guild  
  
\- _House Universal_ (field band The Maroon)  
Lord Morrison, Grand Master  
  
\- _House Nineteen_ (field band The Anthemic)  
Lord Fuller, Grand Master  
Cowell and Jackson, Masters  
  
David Cook, the Anthemic's First  
Neal Tiemann, the Anthemic's Second, stringcaster  
Andrew Skib, second stringcaster  
Montague Anderson, basscaster  
Kyle Peek, beat-caster  
  
David Archuleta and Jason Castro, House Nineteen journeymen  |   
---|---  
|  **THE ANARCHISTS**  
(unlicensed songcasters who battle Old Ones and class systems)  
  
Adam Lambert  
  
Tay Hickson  
Christopher Richardson  
Matthew Giraud  
  
From last battle – Tommy and Longineau of Adam Lambert’s band (unnamed)  
  
Kristopher von Ahlen (Anarchist double agent)  
Todd and Carly Smithson (Anarchist sympathizers)  
**THE ANACHRONISTS**  
(unlicensed songcasters who battle to bring back the Old Ones)  
  
Constantine Maroulis of the Silo  
  
Christophe Daughtry  
Blake Lewison  
Boris Bice  
  
From last battle – Joey Barnes from Daughtry  
  
Leon Czolgosz (secret Anachronist assassin who confessed to being an Anarchist)  
August C. Esenwein (famed architect of the Temple of Music, secret Anachronist) |   
|  **ROYALS**  
(field band the Cold Play)  
  
Edward VII, King of England  
Ida Stanton McKinley, former First Lady  
  
Christian Martin, the Cold Play First  
Guy Berryman, stringcaster  
Jonathan Mark Buckland, bass-caster  
Will Champion, drum-caster   
  
 

**CHAPTER FOOTNOTES**

I am indebted to my awesome American Idol cross-season beta, [](http://lasadh.livejournal.com/profile)[**lasadh**](http://lasadh.livejournal.com/) , the consultative readings of [](http://frackin-sweet.livejournal.com/profile)[**frackin_sweet**](http://frackin-sweet.livejournal.com/) , [](http://rajkumari905.livejournal.com/profile)[**rajkumari905**](http://rajkumari905.livejournal.com/) and [](http://kissesblow.livejournal.com/profile)[**kissesblow**](http://kissesblow.livejournal.com/) , and my immensely knowledgeable American history beta [](http://sock-marionette.livejournal.com/profile)[**sock_marionette**](http://sock-marionette.livejournal.com/). All errors, especially the post-beta ones, remain mine. I am also hugely grateful to the amazingly talented and patient [](http://clover71.livejournal.com/profile)[**clover71**](http://clover71.livejournal.com/) for her diligence in reviewing hundreds of steampunk and American Idol images, and in making the phenomenal art for this challenge. Thank you all so, so much.

(The prequel to this story, which I wrote for lirielviridian, is here: [Anthemicronicon: the Age of Music](http://jehane18.livejournal.com/25985.html).)

My title references [H.P Lovecraft's Necronomicon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necronomicon) (a magical lexicon/grimoire of immense power, fabled to summon the dread Old Ones who would destroy the Earth), and [my favorite Gilded Age Edith Wharton novel](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Age_of_Innocence).

The Old Ones are of course courtesy of H.P. Lovecraft, and my premise regarding Old One blood amongst the world’s Royals belongs to Neil Gaiman, my favorite living writer, and his award-winning _A Study In Emerald_ , copyright 2003 and first published in Sherlock Holmes compendium _Shadows over Baker Street_. It remains my absolute favorite ~~fanfic story~~ derivative work. Please don’t sue me, Neil!

Please note that 19 Inc, Sony Inc, Gramophone Records, Universal Music Group, Warner Music Group, Electric Music Group and A&M Records Inc are not rival Songcasters' Guild Houses but existing corporate entities, owned by their respective shareholders. Fair use of song lyrics asserted. All citations taken from www.metrolyrics.com.

 

[Footnotes likely of no interest to anyone but me:]

**_Chapter One:_ **

* As any casual student of American history knows, William McKinley, 25th President of the United States of America, was [assassinated in September 1901 at the Pan-United American World’s Fair Exposition in Buffalo, New York](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_McKinley).

Police chief Joseph Petrosino, whom I reference in the Guild meeting, had originally [warned McKinley of the assassination plot](http://www.unico.org/files/Lt%20Joe%20Petrosino%20Bio.pdf). In real life, McKinley dies of his injuries a month later, but it was neater in the context of this story for the President to have been killed outright.

* President McKinley’s assassin was Leon Czolgosz, an alleged **Anarchist** , [a 19 century movement that opposed all private ownership and advocated that ownership be collectivized through violent revolution](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_anarchism). It seems Czolgosz [was convinced of a great injustice in American society, an inequality which allowed the wealthy to enrich themselves by exploiting the poor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon%20Czolgosz). He was fueled in his actions by the July 1900 assassination of King Umberto I of Italy by European Anarchist Gaetano Bresci. He was later disavowed by Anarchists including prominent American Anarchist Emma Goldman, tried and executed via the electric chair. (It was, of course, neater for my story for Czolgosz to have died while in custody, thereby being unable to point the finger at my mastermind, Constantine Maroulis, and his merry band of Anachronists.)

* The counter-sect **Anachronists** are an invention of mine. (No, really.)

* [The Temple of Music was a concert hall and auditorium built for the Pan-American Exposition held in Buffalo, New York. It was inside the hall where U.S. President William McKinley was assassinated](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_of_Music). The hall was demolished following the fair in November 1901.

 

**_Chapter Two:_ **

* Cook’s little riff on the Vanderbilt mansion, the Belmonts and post - [Gilded Age society](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilded_Age), as well as the various period NYC buildings, are all well-known historical NYC details; my source material is Wharton and extensive notes from a trip to [Newport and its fabled mansions](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newport,_Rhode_Island) in 2008.

* The Art Deco twin-spired Park Row Building was [indeed the world’s tallest building in 1901](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Park_Row_Building). No dirigible platform, though, alas; the spires were decorative rather than used to moor dirigibles.

* **[](http://sock-marionette.livejournal.com/profile)[**sock_marionette**](http://sock-marionette.livejournal.com/)** , suggested the ball game and matinee which are referenced in this chapter, and provided [this Coney Island advert on 7 September 1901 (which I have transposed into October for the purposes of the story, needing to get some distance from McKinley’s assassination) which shows the actual 1901 ferry schedules](http://www.divshare.com/download/11481760-c23).

* Sox also found for me a [newspaper report on the Jockey Club Saturday races (showing Leonora’s upset win over Blue Girl, and the controversy that ensued)](http://www.divshare.com/download/11485012-507).

* Gounoud’s “Faust” was the opera which opens [the Age of Innocence](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Age_of_Innocence).  
The libretto in French, can be found [here](http://www.opera-guide.ch/libretto.php?id=137&uilang=de&lang=fr); [in English](http://www.opera-guide.ch/libretto.php?id=137&uilang=de&lang=en). Cook and Arch sing: “ _“Cursed be you, O human pleasures! Cursed be the chains that make me crawl! Cursed is all that deludes us, Vain hope which passes with the hour, Dreams of love or of war.”_

 

_Chapter Three:_

* The cost of a day out at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, and the other details about the 1901 World’s Fair Exposition referenced at length in the story, can be found [here](http://panam1901.org/visiting/25_dollar_trip.htm).

* Pierce Arrow was [a car builder in the Brass Era’s automobile revolution](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pierce-Arrow). In this AU, they build airships!

* This is a [scan of a seemingly accurate lithograph of The Temple of Music](http://www.lib.umd.edu/digital/worldsfairs/record.jsp?pid=umd:1004), designed by famed architect August C. Esenwein (whom I made an Anachronist for the purposes of this story). And [an amazing photo of the Temple lit up at night](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Temple_of_Music_CD_Arnold_1901_.jpg), here.  
  


* The fabulous [](http://sock-marionette.livejournal.com/profile)[**sock_marionette**](http://sock-marionette.livejournal.com/) suggested [General Grant’s Tomb](http://www.nps.gov/gegr/historyculture/index.htm) as a site for the secret cult of Anachronists to gather. This article, which Sox dug up for me, puts President and Mrs McKinley with Julia at the New York dedication of Grant’s Tomb: [Grant Tomb Dedicated](http://www.divshare.com/download/11481695-287).

 _Chapter Four_ :

* Edward VII visited the USA in 1860, the first visit by an heir to the British throne. [The visit was a resounding success; he was entertained by President Buchanan at the White House, and was photographed at the Niagara Falls.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_VII_of_the_United_Kingdom)

* “Proof” and “Viva La Vida” lyrics copyright Guy Berryman, Jonathan Mark Buckland, Will Champion and Christopher A J Martin; “Time for Miracles” lyrics copyright Alain Johannes and Natasha Schneider, “Straight Ahead” lyrics copyright David Cook, “Judging a Bullet” and “Call to Arms” lyrics copyright Neal Tiemann. Fair use asserted.

 

 


End file.
